A Dance with Death
by Laevateinn
Summary: Eragon failed and the Varden were crushed. Fate decides to give the rider  a second chance and sends him back in time with no recollection of his  previous life. Can Eragon save Alagaesia from Galbatorix when they end up on  the same side? AxE MxN
1. To do the Impossible

Anyone who is reading this, I thank you already. No this is not the ending, and yes creds to Lil Wayne for the titles. I know this is a very poorly written story, but bear with me. I'm still a little kid :). Hopefully more chapters to come. Usually 2k per chapter but I had nothing left which would go with this. This is not my first fan fiction… Trust me, you don't want to see the first (spent all my life writing it when I was 10). So for now we can safely say that for all intensive purposes, this is the first ever. I don't care if you review to say you hate it, love it (most likely not…), or just to make conversation. Rated T. So long for now.

_**Eragon**_

The ground Eragon was lying on was cold. The cold seeped into his body, causing an involuntary shudder from the young Rider. The movement sent spasms of pain throughout his body. Eragon's hand shot out to his side as another bolt of pain shot from it. The familiar warm, sticky substance met his touch. Blood.

Eragon's head throbbed with the impact of the fall. The Rider groaned and in an instant the sheer disparity of the situation hit him like a tidal wave.

Eragon's mind flashed to the departure of all his friends from the Earth as he knew it. They had all passed into The Void, and he knew it was all his fault.

He was weak then. Each one of their deaths served only one purpose: to make him stronger. It was a gruesome thought, yet the Rider knew deep down, that it was true. He remembered the mental pain their deaths gave him. The mention alone of any of their names sent a force so severe, it would rip him apart.

Had he not been charged with leading the Varden, he may have openly thrown himself into The Void. As Eragon laid there, his control over his limbs slipping, he entertained that thought. _Where would that have left Alaga__ësia__?_ Eragon paused in his thought. _How selfish of me. Alaga__ësia would probably have been better off without me_. At that notion, Eragon could sense the anger emanating from his partner of mind.

Suddenly, a feeling of nonchalance passed over the Rider. His hearing became muffled and the cries of war slowly became nonexistent to Eragon. The Rider continued to sluggishly riffle through the painful memories.

Eragon could see Nasuada impaled on the spear of an Empire soldier. He could see Brom intercepting the dagger as it raced for Eragon's own heart. _Brom_, sighed Eragon mentally. His father. His mentor. Brom had been the only one to truly loved him. Nasuada only wanted to use him, Islanzadí wanted to control him, even Orik, being the friend he was, had his own reasons. _How cynical I am_, thought Eragon. _In the last moments of life I can only think of the bad in people._

There was also Arya-beautiful, strong, caring, the woman of his dreams. She was the one thing he wanted the most, but he could never have. Death had viciously torn her away from him; the day she admitted to loving him, was the day before she was slaughtered, thrown down like an animal with the rest of the solders. She was the princess of the Elves, and unbeatable warrior, tossed aside like a broken blade, to be buried in the mass graves with the rest of the criminals. She should be treasured and given a warrior's funeral; better yet she shouldn't have died. _I should have been there to save her. I should have died in her place. _Eragon didn't need to torture himself with that scenario yet again, but he replayed her death over and over again. _I should have been there._ The one thing he wanted for himself, not for others; he had done so much for the land of Alagaesia; was he not deserving of one person

_Everyone else got what they wanted_, thought Eragon bitterly. Nasuada wanted fealty. Islanzadí wanted influence. Orik: brotherhood. Did Eragon ever get what he wanted? No. His whole family was torn from him.

The stream of bad feelings continued to spiral downwards. His mother left for The Void, though, Eragon reassessed, wasn't her fault. His "uncle" died for his own ignorance. His father died saving him from a blade. His mentor was slaughtered unjustly in the middle of a painful seizure by his own half brother.

The dam refused to close and the stream of bad memories continued to flow. He could see Roran breathing his last breaths as his own hammer came crashing down upon his head. Eragon remembered every fracture of his skull as it viciously cracked and caved in. Eragon could vividly recall as his cousin laid in Katrina's arms, oblivious to the world, as his lifeblood drained into the seams of his loving wife's dress.

It all happened so fast. Eragon tried to warn her. He tried. Oh, how he tried. But the distance was too far. He couldn't save his cousin, and now he can't save his cousin's wife. Eragon remembered his desperate shouts and how they were swept away in the chaos of war. The Rider fought frantically to get to her. But it was all in vain. The sweeping arc of the soldier's blade seemed to move in slow motion. Katrina was beheaded as she held Roran in her arms. What monster kills women? _Imperial soldiers._ Eragon answered to himself, a cloud malice surrounded the two words.

Eragon could clearly see Lord Barst as his sword ran through Islanzadí. He could see the gaping "o" of surprise on her mouth as he withdrew, his bloodstained blade glistening in the sun as he held it up to the sky, marveling at the Elven queen's blood.

The roar of an injured Saphira split through the sky. The bone shaking noise made Eragon try to jump to his feet. A wave of dizziness swept over him, but Eragon continued, snatching a blade from a fallen soldier.

His vision started to fail him as he watched in terror as Saphira sped towards the ground, a stream of blood trailing from her chest, the maroon drops sizzling as they hit the ground. Blackness overcame him for a moment, but it soon dissipated only long enough for him to see Galbatorix holding Saphira's pulsing azure Eldunarí in his hand.

His beautiful dragoness had been killed. Just as hundreds of dragons before her, Saphira had died at the razor sharp point of the onyx blade. The emptiness swept over him, only to be quickly replaced by rage. Eragon dispatched of soldier after soldier as he moved through the once beautiful streets of Illirea, now Urû'baen. Several grievous blows were landed on Eragon, but the blood lust that surged through his body sedated his pain, sending more and more adrenaline each time he was struck, the anger building until it bubbled over.

Saphira was gone. Gone. The concept seemed too big for the young Rider to grasp. Eragon strode into the throne room, blinding cutting down any who barred his way. His partner of mind was not yet under Galbatorix's control, her Eldunarí pulsed in the center of the room, where it was unceremoniously thrown down. Eragon tried in vain to get to it. To break it so he, his dragon, and his friends could live in The Void together.

Eragon could feel his body was drained of energy. Death sounded so beautiful, but he couldn't embrace it without first saving his other half. Eragon fought with recklessness. The only thought was to free his dragon and avenge the death of all his loved ones. But the king was too strong.

Eragon was overpowered. Galbatorix smirked as he effortlessly pushed him out of the throne room window.

Eragon landed on the top of the stairs with a sickening crash. Eragon's body slid down the stone stairs, his head bumping against every single step. As Eragon lay in a heap at the bottom of the steps he could see the battle between the Varden and the Empire stopping. The last few hundred of the Varden's soldiers lay still as Galbatorix himself jumped out the window, landing with a soft thud.

Eragon rose to his shaky feet. Galbatorix laughed as he toyed with his prey like a cat.

The Dark King slashed at Eragon. The Rider struggled to fend of the blows which seemed to come from every angle. Eragon ducked and parried, never gaining an advantage, and barely managing to keep himself alive. As the fight wore on, Eragon collected a multitude if new wounds, while Galbatorix had the slightest bit of perspiration on his brow.

Galbatorix frowned, growing bored of the game. The Mad King flicked his wrist and Eragon's sword was out of his hand, landing with a loud crash which resounded on the Elven paving stones turned black from corruption.

Eragon stumbled backwards and landed on the battle stained grass. Galbatorix raised his sword and plunged it into the young Rider's gut, causing Eragon to howl in pain as he helplessly writhed on the ground.

_I have failed. Failed,_ the words resonated in his head.

Fueled by pure desperation, and a wistful thought thought that he could still win, Eragon once more tried struggled to get up. His world went completely red, and pain erupted from his core. The mocking laughter of the Imperial soldiers started to become an oddly comforting noise, beckoning for him to embrace the darkness of death. Eragon's blearily eyes looked at Galbatorix standing a little less than a foot away. In a last ditch attempt to be strong, Eragon roared, "Stop restraining me with your dark arts and fight me like a dragon Rider!" The laughter from the crowd grew louder.

Out of a sick fascination, Galbatorix removed the blade with a horrible sound of screeching metal as the sword ran against his armour which lay in shambles against his bleeding skin, torn along the whole length of his body, prodding and bloodying his already deformed figure. The king raised his sword and with a demented smile, sent it downwards again.

Eragon was lying in the middle of the partially deserted battlefield. The stench of dead bodies permeated the air. The remaining Varden soldiers were being dragged around in chains little beaten dogs. Each one of them seemed to stare at him with shocked eyes. It wasn't the first time Eragon had been beaten by a servant of evil, but everyone was shocked to see it would be the last

Eragon moved his eyes down, taking for what seemed like forever. His body was mangled. Stab wounds littered his body. His armor had crumpled in on its self, and in some spots was nonexistent. In those spots, his clothing was tattered, showing streaks of blood.

Eragon could see a rapidly growing puddle of his blood around him. The unmistakable black sword of Galbatorix was implanted in Eragon's lung. Eragon's breath shuddered, and every breath was hard to draw. The sword seemed to shake with the hideous sound of air escaping from lungs. Fresh, crimson blood bubbled up from around the blade.

Once Eragon knew the importance of the war he was fighting, the war he had just lost; he imagined his own death, but it felt like a far away nightmare. Eragon drew a shaky breath, "And so it ends."

Eragon desperately reached out toward magic to keep him alive, murmuring a spell to save himself as Galbatorix once again reeled back and plunged his dark black sword deep into Eragon's heart. There lay Eragon: broken and dying at the hands of the Black King.

This was just the beginning of the end.


	2. The Clutches of Darkness

Hello to all people reading this. I (thankfully) have been granted permission to use some of the concepts seen in Rainxoxo's Reversed Life story. Special thank you to Rainxoxo who made so many wonderful/unseen twists and turns possible.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters (all C.P.'s) and Rainxoxo owns some of the plot. The concept of Eragon dying and coming back may have inadvertently come from Unreal Tech, Chair, and Epic Games' Infinity Blade Series, but I don't think so. I'm going to give myself credit for that peace, but other than that, I own nothing.

This was an extremely difficult chapter to write, given I needed to figure out where to start my story. This is definitely not one of my better chapters, but it needed to be done. It was a slow chapter, and I don't know why but I tried to stretch the minuscule amount of information into as long a chapter as humanly possible. I meant to update this chapter earlier but I was experiencing login difficulty. Sorry people.

Also, _italics _will be used to show mental conversation between any characters.

_**Eragon**_

Eragon slowly awoke on a wet, cold ground. The first thing the rider was aware of was the stone ground. He could feel the unevenness of the stone as he laid there. It was uncomfortable to say the least. Small stones dug into his stomach, legs, and arms.

The ground smelled of mold and rat droppings. It made Eragon's nose wrinkle slightly in disgust. The rider tried to move to a sitting position, to get his face as far away from the stone, but his body didn't want to respond to his wishes. Eragon cold feel his right leg growing colder. It was resting in a puddle of murky water. A sheen of scum and dirt rested on the surface of the puddle.

Eragon steadied himself mentally and managed to shift his body to a slightly more comfortable position. The small movement sent waves of pain through the rider's body. The pain caused Eragon's eyes to fly open and a small gasp to escape from his mouth.

Eragon closed his eyes again, an action that seemed to take a lot of energy from him. _Concentrate. Breathe._ _In and out. _Even the action of breathing hurt. _In and out. In and_... a violent cough erupted from the rider. Another spasm of pain followed. Eragon continued to concentrate on his breathing, absorbing the pulses of pain coming from every inch of his body.

As his body adjusted, Eragon noticed a gaping hole in his mind. _Saphira._ The impact of his loss hit him again, causing his breathing to hitch. His world was empty. He was left in nothingness without the presence of his dragon and the companionship of his friends.

Eragon heard the several footsteps approaching. A person leaned in close to his face; the faint smell of carrot lingered on their breath. A cloud of sweat and dried blood, marking them as someone returning from the chaos of battle, hung thickly around them.

A dark aura emanated from the figure. The person exuded an air of power and confidence. The figure placed a clammy hand on his back. A strange tingling feeling washed over him, and the pain ceased. Eragon almost sighed in relief, but a wave of tiredness washed over him. This man must use the strength of the wounded to heal themselves and others.

As Eragon's mind slowly brushed off the sheen of sluggishness, the first thought that sprung into his mind was, _The war!_ Eragon berated himself. The young rider mentally spewed off a jumbled line of curses and urgent words. _Get a grip_. Eragon commanded to himself. _Breathe. Assess your surroundings._

Eragon cautiously extended his mind. As he met no opposition, he his senses expand to cover the room he was currently in. He could feel the presence of a handful of weak minds, probably soldiers. A certain unease ran through these minds. Within the small puddle of consciences, Eragon picked out two very guarded minds.

The two beings seemed to feed off the energies of the solders and two immensely powerful stones that had minds of their own.

Eragon could feel himself being healed by strange means. Every part of his being wanted to shrink away from the magic, yet it was oddly soothing: unlike the itching feeling he got when healing himself. As muscle, skin, and bone knitted together, the whiteness blinding him instantly turned to black.

_Dark magic,_ Eragon thought with a pang of guilt. _Ironic, _thought Eragon. _The thing I fight is now helping me._ The dark magic emanated from the magicians, shrouding his mind in a thick fog to separate his mind from the pains of his body. It was if a cloak had been thrown around him as to keep him alive through a raging winter storm. He was surrounded by darkness, hiding everyone around him.

Eragon couldn't comprehend what was going on around him; his mind was the equivalent of a mental whirlwind, and he was stuck in the middle. He could see the final moments of his pitiful existence as clearly as if they had been cast in stone. He and Galbatorix were fighting, talking. _Where was the warm feeling of soaking in the sea of his own blood? What happened to the laughing and jeering soldiers? What happened to the Varden? Most importantly, what happened to Saphira?_

Eragon struggled to maintain control of his thoughts. The dark magic clouded his mind and he slowly lost his grip of reality. Eragon's ears rang and his whole body felt numb. Wisps of something brushing his mind, but Eragon was powerless to do anything as the magic permeated his mind.

A mental dagger was driven into his mind, causing the rider to wince. The dagger was twisted and turned in his mind. Each turn shot pain throughout Eragon's head.

_Eragon, _hissed the attacker. The malicious voice was harsh and abrasive on his hind.

Eragon tried to fend of the attack, but the two minds worked together and forced Eragon into submission. A second icy dagger plunged into the recesses of Eragon's mind.

The forces at work skimmed through his thoughts, threatening to tear through the thin fabrics of his memories, exerting seemingly indispensable resources coming from their twin stones of power. They were locking away his memories, collecting them for later use.

Then the two minds came across the greatest secrets of the riders; secrets unknown to a non-rider since the birth of Eragon the first himself.

A terrible feeling swept through Eragon's being. For a second time he had failed. Not only did he fail the Varden, but now he had failed the very foundations of the riders. He had become so weak as to be the first rider unable to protect even his own thoughts.

And know the twins knew.

They knew the of Du Weldenvarden. They knew of his memories of Oromis. They the prophecy of the vault of souls. They now knew the secret weapon of immense power under the Menoa tree They knew the two words for killing unknown to the world except for the dragon riders.

And they knew more than Eragon wanted to remember.

They knew everything.

Suddenly, an incredible urge to laugh fell over the young rider. _How foolish I was!_ _Hoping to run in and single-handily win a war that had been going on for centuries. Acting like a great hero from the legends when all I was was a failure._

A bitter rage followed the brief period of mad mirth. His dragon was dead. His friends: dead. _What have I become?_ Even though leading his friends to their demise left an unsealable hole in his heart, his emotionless façade never wavered.

Eragon loved Arya with all of his heart, yet when he heard about her death, Eragon only let a single tear drop before vowing to avenge her to the best of his ability. Make no mistake, his very soul was shredded to pieces that day, only to be hastily stuck back together when duty called.

His dragon. His ruler of the sky. The only princess he could call his own. That now familiar feeling of loss continued to grow and blossom in his gut. He had let her fall from the sky when the only thing she had done was to be faithful to him. All his friends had been given the choice to leave his rebellion, but Saphira was the one who was bonded to him. Through their sacred connection, they shared everything with each other. Because of Eragon's lack of strength, Saphira, his beautiful dragoness, had paid the ultimate price. Saphira had passed into the void, leaving her rider behind, just as the Saphira before her was made to leave Eragon's father's side. Eragon was responsible for all the casualties in the final battle, the deaths of all his friends, but most importantly the death of his dragon who never had the choice to leave his side and continue her race.

It hit Eragon that he had been the one to doom the race of the Dragons to extinction. Out of all the riders, even the most corrupt, he had been the only one to fail at completing his Wyrda. He reasoned it was his Wyrda which sent him back, alone, helpless, to finish the daunting which he was destined to complete. Unlike others in history, he had, by some miracle, been thrust back into the world and given a second chance. He had no idea how to complete his task without the help of his friends, but he was sure he would find a way to complete his destiny and one day see his dragon and his princess again.

Eragon continued to shrink away from the two probing shadows in his mind. Eragon started to every decision that brought him to this point as the twins forcefully removed each memory. The rider noticed how rash each choice he had taken was. Maybe if he had taken the time to ponder about Oromis' lessons, he might have traveled to Du Weldenvarden and trained more. Instead, Eragon had rushed foolishly into an impossible fight, forsaking all his duties and mindlessly sacrificing himself so he could rest in peace unlike the other millions of people in Alagaësia.

Suddenly, Eragon could feel his mind slipping. Eragon struggled to remember what had happened to get him here. Eragon was drawn from his thoughts as he realized the twins had done their job a little too well. With a huge pulse of energy, Eragon felt two miniature pillars of flame surround each magician. The twins were instantaneously burnt to a crisp from the inside out, the ashes gently sprinkling down upon Eragon as he drifted into a dreamless slumber. Nothing was left besides a shadow of his old consciousness and his name… Eragon, son of none, rider of Saphira, Queen of the Skies, and the last free Dragon Rider of Alagaësia.

It was a strange feeling to know absolutely nothing. The first thought which consumed the mighty Dragon Rider's newly built consciousness was a single word, _Revenge_; and with that, Eragon the second was reborn.

For clarification the stones of power were Eldunarí. Everything about Eragon's rebirth will be explained in later chapters. Also, "his princess" was referencing Arya and how Eragon hopes she will become his princess sometime (I pictured the void to be another place where everything was happy, much like the elven forest before the war. To clarify, I pictured it as an actual place, not just a mental void bathed in white light).


	3. New Beginnings

Hi people! I have some pretty exciting news. The first reviewer to my story, Pie in the face (Pie), has agreed to become a co-writer of this story! I would like to thank Pie for being the first person to ever review a story of mine. I would also like to thank Rainbow (not to be confused with Rainxoxo to whom I am also grateful) for reviewing.

Pie is now writing this story along with me. To be clear, this is the first collaborative chapter.

I don't think some people get this... Reviews make the world go round. I promise to have longer chapters and quicker updates the more reviews I get. To be honest though, when I first posted my story, I thought nobody would ever look at it. I am very happy to see that over 300 people have, in fact, read my story. No flames here people I am grateful to all of you for reading even though you didn't take the chance to review. Views also make me want to update, so keep reading even if you don't want to review. I don't plan on stopping anytime soon.

_**Eragon**_

Eragon's dreams carried him far and wide across the land of Alagaesia... his mind was peaceful and calm, as if everything was alright in his world. If only Eragon had been awake, he would have known that something was wrong. Questions in his mind would've arose. Eragon would have been shocked to see the ground rushing by beneath him, and see all the trees were no bigger than his thumb. He would wondered why he was he was flying, or rather floating on a strange beast. Eragon might have felt an indescribable feeling of terror caused by the origin of the black magic that was transporting him. A shadow of guilt and terror might have washed over him when he realised that he was being carried upon the wings of black magic to the lair of Galbatorix-the Black King himself. But no, Eragon felt none of this as he floated, unaware of the impending challenges awaiting him. He only felt peace.

Eragon would never remember what occurred when he woke up from his past life. Memories of that day, along with most others, had been lost to the treachery of the twins. Fortunately for Alagaesia, the thoughts inside Eragon's head weren't meant for just anyone. Eragon's memories of lessons and scripture of the Dragon Riders were warded against such mental invasions and had incinerated the twins the moment they laid their grubby hands on the coveted knowledge. There were only a handful of people in history who had ever come in contact with the memories of a rider and had come back to find their own bodies unmutilated, let alone their consciousness intact. Alas, the twins were not meant to be one of those exceedingly rare few.

Eragon unknowingly sped across the night sky perched on a demon of unknown origin. As the duo soon neared their destination and as the demon and former Dragon Rider made their way toward the keep of Uru'baen, a tidal wave of sadness rippled through the people in the lower city. They all have heard the stories of when the first dragon rider came and took over the land, corroding the walls of the purist elvish gold until they were coated in the putrid black rust. They all know how the once proud city emitted a feeling of oppression and the city city itself seemed to embody death.

Who knew what horrors another dragon rider would bring? Would the second would bring more punishment and horror to the citizens of the lower city, and more gold and wealth to the poisonous snakes who lived above them? The thought of it made some dash into their dilapidated shacks and cower underneath the moth bitten blankets.

From growing up in this dark city, the people of the lower city assumed the worst. It seemed only right in their minds that it was destined for Rider Eragon to become a dark figure. To roam the streets killing at random and stealing what little possessions they owned. They knew that the nefarious people of the upper city would mold him into a figure of pure destruction.

The people also felt the darkness of Glabatorix's beast and it instilled fear in them, and others saw this as an opportunity to complain about another evil tyrant. None of the people living in the lower city of Uru'baen were optimists. So it was only right that no one ever once thought that the man fast approaching their city on a cloud of black would have been a man who was eventually going to turn the tide in their struggle against the iron fist of the Black King.

Never in any one's wildest dreams did they dream about an epic clash between the evil rider and the rider to be. Instead, rumor spread around Uru'baen of a new enforcer to keep the people of Alagaesia in line. A man that would be trained by Galbatorix himself to become the next coldblooded killer.

Rumors sprung from the raw fear of men that even said that the new rider wasn't even a man, but some kind of dark abomination housing Galbatorix's own mind.

Throughout the decent of the beast to the tallest spire of Uru'baen, the minds of the people below seemed to become more and more hidden. Already, people were making up elaborate stories to satisfy their own desires. They told their own fake stories with so much passion, that it ever scared the creators.

Uru'baen had never been more ablaze with idle chatter; neighbors who regularly fought each other with tooth and nail cowered in each other's arms as the beast seemed to inform them of their impending doom. Something which hadn't happened in years seemed to ignite before the eyes of onlookers. All of the sudden, the citizens of the lower city was ablaze with action. Bold words to overthrow the new nemesis and the old, flew around the city. Farmers even raised there tools after hearing the stories, as if smiting down the new evil that had been brought into the city. And in a blink of an eye, a seed of courage was planted in every citizen of the lower city of Uru'baen.

Driven out of pure rage, fear, and determination, the people, long since oppressed, felt the need to stand up tall for the first time in years, and break the heavy chains of the king.

_**Galbatorix**_

Many names for himself had accumulated over the years. They were like a pile of dust on a dresser to him, piling up until the breeze coming through the window was enough to blow it over the edge, creating room for new ones. He let the old ones fall and new ones be brought in, keeping, of course, the ones he cared for in particular.

_Yes, Black King_, he thought. _That title will indeed serve me well_, secretly thanking his newest guest for allowing him to show off his skills of summoning. The black magic beast glided over to settle in a corner right beside Shruikan, his own dragon. It was dismantled and dispelled by a single thought, and the boy who was riding upon it so gracefully just a few minutes ago came crashing through the floor.

Shruikan snorted, two wisps of smoke drifted from his nostrils. _A simple spell could have saved the boy from blue-black-spots._

_Yes, my dear dragon. Unlike you, I am not an incompetent overgrown lizard. I understand things like this and do _not_ need reminding from _you.Galbatorix sneered. Then his mouth contorted into a sickeningly sweet smile. _We have become quite fond of sharing our opinions to each other, have we not?_ The honey in his voice threatened to ooze out of his mental mouth.

Shruikan would have lashed out with a snide comment, had he not been silenced by five pulses of energy which sprang from his rider's fingers.

_It seems I have become lax about how our relationship is meant to be, _Galbatorix threatened. _I am your MASTER, not your rider. YOU obey me at all times. Unless I ask for YOUR opinion YOU keep YOUR annoying thoughts to YOURSELF. I DON'T CARE! _

Shruikan trembled, becoming weak with the pain. Every point of Galbatorix's had been emphasized by a bolt of pure energy drawn from Shruikan's own vast reserves. The great black dragon hung his head, the connection between Galbatorix and himself went deathly quiet.

Galbatorix, seeing as his work was done with his misbehaving dragon, moved on to the small child lying on the ground, eying Galbatorix with an icy glare. Galbatorix opened up to the world for the first time in millennium, and let a throaty, gruff sound come out of the back of his throat. He had laughed purely from amusement at the whims of a boy couldn't be more than eleven.

It hadn't been since his fight with Vrael that he had been looked upon with such intense but yet undisguised hatred. He quickly shocked the child who was unceremoniously sent flying backward, reeling and unconscious. Galbatorix stalked off to his private chambers, gruffly motioning for a servant to carry the boy off to a warm, comfortable bed.

Tomorrow would be a new day, a day of triumph for Galbatorix and a day of sadness for the rest of Alagaesia. Galbatorix had a special feeling that this boy, the one who had arisen in front of the twins through a hole in the ground; this boy would be the future of Alagaesia. Galbatorix could almost feel the tendrils of the blue dragoness' mind reaching out toward the young boy fast asleep in a lavish room of his own. Galbatorix's veins burned with the thrill of victory.

_At last! Alagaesia's resistance will fall. A new order of Dragon Riders will spring from the ashes of the old. The world will tremble under the weight of my iron fist!_


	4. Remembering Greatness

Hi people reading this! So there was as a period where it was impossible to log into fanfiction. Thanks to Pie, I was able to finish the 3rd chapter on Sunday night. She and I (well mostly she because I have trouble editing what I write) will be going through the first chapters and adding good stuff... couldn't hurt to read them again. Thanks to my co-writer, chapter quality should definitely improve. Even though this story is on my profile, and most of the ideas are mine; most of the description is hers, and I would say we split credit for the story around 50/50.

Thanks to our reviewers: Restrained. Freedom, Mets986, DBack47, and Rozelyn. Your comments and questions are greatly appreciated.

To clear up a little bit of the confusion, Eragon is younger (I would put him around 13). The Varden hasn't had a major battle with the Empire yet. The egg hasn't been stolen yet, and Arya... well we'll see about her.

Super sorry about the lengthy update time. Went on an unexpected vacation and my mac went haywire (thank goodness for apple care)!

Moving on...

I've got nothing else, so here we go!

_**Arya**_

It was common knowledge that elves were superior to humans in every category; that is, unless one could take a severe lack of knowledge and manors and turn it into a good thing. Currently, only the weakest of elves, who were still worth at least twenty of Galbatorix's men apiece, resided in their capitol-Du Weldenvarden. The strongest of the elves had gone East in search of a great ally or another dragon in order to break the stalemate with the Empire.

Du Weldenvarden provided a safe haven for those all who resided inside. The forest was not like any human city. The trees themselves could outshine the best of human architecture. They stood straight and perfect, their lush, green canopy seemed to brush clouds. The trees weren't the only breathtaking thing about the elven capitol. Each of the elves' homes was methodically sung out of the landscape, weaving and bending to fit each one of nature's curves. Flowers of all hues littered the ground, growing in dense bunches.

Du Weldenvarden was not only magnificent; it was the pinnacle of the elves' power. Even in its less unguarded state, not even Galbatorix would venture far into the dense forest.

The Elves were one of the few enigmas of this world. They were a secretive race, only letting their own kin pass into the carefully guarded realm. Rarely had the ancient roots of the forest been trampled by someone not of elven birth.

The Elves were spread thin within the forest. Every elven city had shrunk, as more of its inhabitants joined the war effort. Elven children were becoming increasingly hard to come by. All but a few of them had the foresight to not bring more children into this dangerous world.

Arya, as always, was an acceptation to the rule. She was of royal birth, the heir to the Knotted throne of the Elves-the throne upon which her father used to sit. Her mother was currently stationed there, but the likely-hood of her stepping down from the throne after the Great War was over was growing by every second.

The war had been going on for too long, even for an elf. Time was never of the essence in Elven society. They lived for thousands of years, always appearing at the zenith of their beauty, achieving the state of agelessness slightly after the young age of sixteen.

Elves, however, were affected by stress equally, if not more, than humans are. They might not age, but a stressed elf was an old elf. Arya's mother was the perfect example. Being a ruler of Du Weldenvarden was not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, so much so that Arya herself dreaded being in her mother's position. Her mother lived in what had been called one of the most beautiful places on Alagaesia, but her sanctuary and home was also her prison. She couldn't leave for fear of what repercussions the elves would face, so she was trapped until fate released her and someone else took the burden of the Knotted throne off her tired shoulders. Naturally this job fell to the only heir to the throne: Arya.

Ever since she was a young girl, Arya had been mistreated, but most importantly misunderstood. She never desired her mother's position on the Knotted throne-tied down by the heavy chains of duty. Yet at the same time, Arya also understood duty came first and personal life second.

She would one day agree to relieve her mother of her position, and step into the never-ending sea of Elven politics. Arya's musings came to a halt as she realized she had never even seen the sea. The elf scoffed at herself. How silly of her to base a metaphor off of something she never laid eyes on. Arya dismissed the thought and let her mind drift over her memories. As she continued her nostalgic trip through her mind's archives, Arya found the one she'd been looking for...

"_Father, tell me about the sea."_

_Evandar had pondered over how to explain this topic to his child for a few minutes. Finally he explained, __"The sea is many things: beautiful but cruel, horrible but kind, soothing yet aggravating, a caregiver and a life-taker. It can pacify the best of minds, but also send sparks of inspiration to others. The sea is a treasure trove of riches so old they have been lost to time."_

_Evandar paused for a moment. He watched as his narration slowly lost the interest of his daughter. Arya had stopped listening and was and quite content by just squeezing dirt between her toes. _

_Evandar hugged her daughter and walked away. He would bring her to the sea for the first time and smile as he watched her eyes grow wide with amazement. But little did he know, that conversation would be the last time they spent any kind of quality time together._

Arya was drawn away from her thoughts once more as deeply troubled Rhunön emerged from between two pines-the deep green needles suddenly looking so much more menacing. _

_**Evandar**_

Arya's father had once been a great warrior. When it came down to the honest sword fight, he was paralleled by no one save for Vrael himself.

On that cold day when he road out, the world seemed to call out his end. Evandar listened, but continued forth, driven by his duty. Little did he know, he was marching into a great clash of kings: a story that would be told and retold for centuries.

Evandar and his guard of twelve of the best spell casters faced off against Galbatorix at the very fringe of Du Weldenvarden. Galbatorix was frantically trying to tear down the now thin magical barrier placed around the sacred forest.

Evandar was said to have looked at the carnage around him with disdain. Elves were flung against the trees, blood slowly seeped out of their deformed corpses. The very land was torn and emitted an aura of anguish and despair.

It was Rhunön herself who crafted the weapons were turned against her people out of hate and lust for power. The elven smith would never forgive herself for allowing such perfect blades to fall into malicious, power-hungry hands.

It was told Evandar wished to face Galbatorix alone in a duel of fates. Galbatorix agreed to the King's demands in the ancient language, also binding the oath that no other should interfere. The two kings fought with no trickery, only swords.

The Mad King had taken away everything from Evandar: friends, family, and brethren had perished under Galbatorix's unrelenting sword. Even after seeing elf after elf fall, never to rise again, Evandar refused to hide from his fate.

That day when Evandar went into battle against the greatest tyrant in the history of the world, would be the day Evandar left behind the thing he loved most: his only child-Arya.

Evandar wished he could live on to see his daughter grow strong and wise. He wished he could see the day when Arya would remove the burden of the Knotted throne from his wife, Islanzadí. He wished he could embrace his daughter once last time and tell her that he loved all those wishes had to go unfulfilled. He knew it was his time to fall, and embraced it with open arms and a heavy heart.

And so stood Evandar, encircled by his own people while Galbatorix stood with the remainder of his precious Forsworn and their nameless dragons, namely Morzan.

Morzan was a man Evandar knew to be peaceful and compassionate, turned savage and crazy by Galbatorix's promises of freedom, power and wealth. Evandar remembered a few idle conversations with Morzan were he actually praised Morzan for his rational thinking and his ideas for the future of the Dragon Riders.

The elven king had also watched as Morzan gradually turned into a machine meant for war. He saw Morzan's interest in the literature decline as he became more interested in finding the two missing killing words, the next poison which was strong enough to kill a person at the slightest touch, or the newest way to get your sword sharper as to effortlessly cleave through a person's neck.

Evandar himself had warned Vrael against this threat and Vrael had listened. Vrael banned Morzan from researching new spells or using the alchemy labs on Vroengard. In turn, Morzan had become furious and enraged. The rider was blinded by the thoughts of Galbatorix and never realized the seed of blood lust had sprouted and grown until it had consumed his being.

Morzan voiced his own opinions to the council at Vroengard. "The Dragon Riders were once a glorious organization of peacekeepers, soldiers, and protectors. We were able to adapt to changes in the world, ensuring they would always be the best at what they did. People looked up in awe at even the youngest dragon riders.

"We are no longer what we once were, and we no longer stand for what we once did. We waged war against great enemies. We are striking a killing blow against ourselves! We are limiting the powers of the dragon riders! We are containing the the reaches of our imaginations! We are allowing our order to become tame and weak while others move ahead of us!

"We may be powerful, but time will not stop if we will it to stop! You cannot limit what was once the mightiest order in history and allow it to die off! I will not allow the dragon riders to be brought down, destroyed slowly as we rot on this island! Who is with me?"

Evandar would remember the speech and what happened afterward for the rest of his extremely numbered days.

Little did Morzan notice, Galbatorix had risen from a hallway to stand beside him, with an approving look. Galbatorix's loyalty was already in question. The council had been keeping an eye on him ever since Galbatorix's dragon, Jarnunvösk, died because of his own recklessness.

Like every dragon rider, Galbatorix loved his dragon with all of his heart. The immense emptiness Jarnunvösk's death left him with, consumed and corrupted him to be someone he was not.

The old Galbatorix was a kind man; a man who during his tests to become a dragon rider had helped many people without taking a single penny for his work. His bright flame of goodness was extinguished, but the key to the complete transformation was the council of riders refusing to grant him another dragon.

The moment the council turned him down, was the moment Galbatorix was consumed by feeling of hate and revenge against those who had decided one chance was enough for him. He solemnly swore in the Ancient language he would kill all those responsible for his plight.

It all started in the council room where his best friend, who stayed with him through thick and thin, granted him the gift of twelve new warriors to help him achieve his goal, to change his Wyrda and that of the dragon riders, dooming them to a fate of living in the void. These people he saw as weapons at his control. These men became the Forsworn.

As Evandar circled, initiating the dance of death with Galbatorix, his memories of Morzan's transformation flashed before his eyes. He could see the hurt in the eyes of Morzan. He was the only one who had something special that not even the elf, Kialandí, had. While the others around him were consumed by power and greed, Morzan was the one who had goodness in this heart.

It was the slight spark when their eyes met that Evandar knew the outcome of the match had already been decided. With the slightest look, Morzan said goodbye to a friend, now turned an enemy. Evandar would have offered Morzan the chance to surrender, but he knew it was unwise. Morzan had already chosen to alter his Wyrda in the most hideous of ways. He was tricked into changing his fate, helping Galbatorix not only bring the end of the riders, but also instate a tyrant to the throne of Alagaesia.

Evandar and Galbatorix circled each other, swords drawn, poised to lash out at each other. Evandar was the first one to break the heavy tension and strike out at Galbatorix. Galbatorix rolled to the side, avoiding Evandar's gold blade. The Dark King quickly got to his feet and unleashed a fury of blows to Evandar's side, his shadow black blade lashing out in every direction. Evandar quickly lost ground as he struggled to turn. Each time he moved, Galbatorix moved to always be on his weak side. _A wise but foolish move_, thought the elven king.

As Evandar fended off Galbatorix's killing blows, he got the mental picture of what he thought was the last cup of tea he would have before he headed to the void. His daughter, Arya was trying to turn the cup to get at a piece of pastry which had fallen in and becoming submerged. She frantically turned the cup round, trying to get the crumb out of the steamy golden liquid. The water had stayed in the same position relative to her while it turned inside the cup. Quietly thanking his daughter under his breath, Evandar finally had a plan.

The Elf King backed up until he was once again in the center of the clearing. He skillfully gave the illusion he was going to turn again, but instead switched directions. He lead with his weaker left side as he rotated right, finally bringing Galbatorix over to the left side.

Evandar realized the jeering of Galbatorix's warriors had stopped. Realizing he no longer had the advantage, Galbatorix's face twisted into a wicked snarl as he was quickly forced back under the full fury of Evandar.

Evandar wove a living web of gold around himself. He lashed out against his opponent while defending himself-all in the same strike. The Elf King's sword was almost invisible to the naked eye as Galbatorix and Evandar danced surrounded by twin rings of gold and black. They were two of the most graceful combatants the world would ever be fated to see.

After hours of raining blows down upon each other, Galbatorix let his hate blind him and he made one fatal slip. Evandar had executed a perfect slash at Galbatorix's head. The Dark King's head met the blade straight on, and King Evandar's sword cracked in two, leaving the slightest trickle of blood down Galbatorix's scalp.

Evandar had been given a prophecy with the sword, one which was important and unchangeable as time itself. The sword had been forged by the first Grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. The king of the newly forged dwarven society slaved over an anvil for a week straight, making Evandar what was undoubtedly the most beautiful sword ever. The sword was made out of solid gold, and had the best quality diamonds and gemstones ever seen in Alagaesia. When given the sword as a token of thanks, the Dwarf King had told Evandar he was extremely sorry at his failure. When Evandar asked why, the King simply replied, "This sword will be the best ever made by any smith. It is perfect. It has been sharpened to the pinnacle of perfection and will never go dull. The diamonds in the hilt have been magically transformed to regenerate their own energy, and the gold in the sword will never bend."

Foolishly, Evandar had exclaimed, "Then it is perfect!".

"Hardly" moaned the King. Elaborating as if each word pained him to express, "I have bound the sword to your life. While you use it, you will reign supreme. You will become the best ruler the Elves have even seen. However, this sword holds a dark secret: it will also be your downfall. The sword will choose when it is time to die, and you will have no choice in the matter. It is fated to fail you in your time of greatest need."

For years, Evandar had kept the sword locked away deep in the vault of souls. It was too beautiful to lay eyes on and not tempt the person looking to wield it. When the riders took their plunge into chaos, so did the elves. Evandar finally accepted the fact the sword's powers were finally needed to unite his race. And so for years he led the Elves faithfully. Under the sword's influence became one of the greatest Kings to ever lead the fair folk. He sent the Elven army, the famed Army of Immortalis, into the East to bring home the savior of Alagaesia while he defended his kingdom, amplifying the barriers so nobody could get either in nor out of the forest. He had never planned on dueling Galbatorix, but when the barriers around the forest fell for the first time in thousands of years, he was forced to come out and fight. Unwilling to lose the lives of any of the other elves, he decided to fight one on one, no magic; only their skills with the sword were going to show the winner's true colors.

And that long tale brought him to this moment: the time when his blade was finally dulled, cracking in half over the skull of Galbatorix. It was this one moment that he knew his time had come to an end. His eyes came to rest on his old friend, Morzan, as a cold black sword slipped into his gut, its owner laughing at his luck.

It was true what the legends told about the last moments of life. His very life flashed before his eyes. He lingered on every moment: his childhood, to his marriage, to the birth of his lovely daughter. Oh, how he would miss them all! He would miss the rare smiles of his wife. He would miss the untamed laughter and joy of his daughter. And in a second, he regretted his decision to go into battle. He would give up everything just to embrace his family once more. Everything just to see them and his home once more. The proud elven king let a stray tear run down his face. A silent "goodbye" formed on his lips as his knees hit the ground.

Evandar had already planned this moment, most likely inadvertently urged on by his own downfall. Evandar sent his mental explanation to Rhunön, the only one who would come remotely close understanding him.

Evandar made sure his daughter would also, one day, bare the explanation as to why he never returned, or why he had left her knowing he would die, but without saying a final goodbye.

One day, his daughter would know how he had felt leaving her and his wife behind in a dangerous world while he passed into the void. She would understand, Evandar was sure of this. He had the horrible feeling that no matter how much he pleaded with her, she would end up helping to finish what he started, so instead of trying to keep her out, Evandar welcomed her into the frenzy of battle with open arms.

Within his explanation were instructions for the future. She would fight against Galbatorix no matter what, but Evandar was keen on trying his damnedest to make her win. The final words out of his mouth were clear to all, but only understood by one, "When she is old enough..." With that, the greatest of the Elven Kings died on the sword of his enemy, imagining all the others he had known who suffered the same fate; all the others who would fare similarly in the future. His last words were to his friends, but the last glance he through before he fell was directed at Morzan; the proud warrior, now a dark menace was on the verge of tears. He had never been close to Evandar, but he knew the death of the Elven King was his fault. He had been trusted, and he had betrayed that trust.

One look between Evandar and Morzan was enough for Morzan to communicate his apologies. The rider hadn't wanted to go and kill the riders. He had wanted freedom from the dragon rider's restrictions, and this Evandar understood. Evandar knew Morzan was hurt beyond belief, but he had no way to escape, nowhere to go should he run.

Among other things, the elven king knew inside Morzan was a kindled fire, slowly stoked over the year until it would become a raging inferno. That sacred something was a spark of goodness and redemption, igniting after being kept dormant for too long in his now cold and desolate soul. Evandar, for the first time, prayed. Elves don't believe in gods, but Evandar prayed for all the spirits to help Morzan's spark of goodness reignite and to make it lead to Galbatorix's downfall. Little did Evandar know, he had prayed for the fate of a young boy, unborn, not even starting to develop, but yet destined to be born. Unbenounced to him, his prayer would drag another innocent person into the immanent conflict. With Evandar's prayer would come a chain of events, including the death of Morzan and the rise of a resistance group named the Varden. The boy he prayed for would be blessed beyond belief. This boy would become known as Eragon Shadeslayer.


	5. A Lost Cause

**I'm just going to get right into it. I should spend some time editing what I wrote, but I think I can leave that for later (or to Pie, whichever comes first). I am so lucky to have a beta/co-author. With all the corrections she made to the third chapter, I wonder what horrors lie in the first and second *scared face*.**

**Actually, chapters one and two have been re-written. Please run back and read and review them!**

**A special thanks to LaughingLlama12345 for being a temporary beta for this chapter.**

**Thank you to all my reviewers! I mention every reviewer in the next chapter, and also normally respond to each one.**

**Don't worry, I will still keep writing (no clue what drives me). Believe it or not, the long update time was caused by thinking about the future… err I mean my visit to Florida. I have a life too! (No, actually)**

**Thank you to...  
>- for continuous support and invaluable feedback (If you're reading this I just discovered you are a pretty prolific, and famous, reviewer! Can't stop seeing your name!<br>- Du Hljodhr Sundavar for reviewing!**

**Onward...March!**

_Morzan_

Morzan felt more alive than ever as he paced back and forth across Galbatorix's throne room. The death of Evandar was forever burned into his mind. The elf king's eyes as the last glimmer of life were drained from them. The small look of desperation Evandar gave him. Morzan shook himself, hoping he could shake off the memory, but it was to no avail.

The red rider looked up at the sun and saw that it had only moved a slight amount since he started his incessant pacing I guess time passes slowly in hell, Morzan brooded. Stifling a humorless laugh, Morzan reigned himself back into his previous stream of thoughts. Unless he was able to deceive the king without any hitches, he would be kept in hell forever. Hell being the depths of Urû'baen's torture chambers. He kept entertaining the plan to trick the dark king when Galbatorix walked into the room. Talk about the devil, Morzan sighed inwardly.

As soon as the king's presence poisoned the room, any thought of deception fled the rider's mind and excuses bubbled up like water from a spring.

I don't need to do this. Brom was sleeping with my wife after all. I shouldn't mind if he meets a timely end. He deserves it. Why should I put my life on the line for a child that isn't even mine? Morzan panicked at his own cruelty. He was willing to kill another innocent child to protect his own back. Brom was my friend once, and I betrayed his trust in a more horrific way than how he betrayed mine. Tell Galbatorix and he will be forgiving. This is the first time your loyalty has ever wavered, he will understand. The red rider inwardly berated himself. You fool. Forgiving and Galbatorix will never be mentioned in the same breath. He will kill your wife and you will be forever damned to the depths of hell once he finally allows you to die. Morzan's thoughts continued to clash with one another as he struggled to keep Galbatorix from noticing the internal conflict within his head.

Shut up! Morzan screamed to himself, instantly quieting the argument his mind. I have chosen to go down this path. For the first time in years I have been entrusted with something great by someone other than my master. I am going through with this. I will redeem my soul. I will once again be looked upon as a Rider of good. I will show the world Evandar was right about me. Morzan focused himself. The determination calmed his essence and brought stability to the turmoil that threatened his sanity only seconds ago. The red rider directed his gaze back on Galbatorix who was making his way to his usual seat.

Galbatorix straighten in his throne, his regal air increased as he nodded to Morzan presence before slipping softly into his black throne. Behind him, Shuriken stirred slightly and lazily opened one eye for a brief second before succumbing to sleep once again.

Galbatorix was a human Rider, destined to live forever unless he or his dragon were slain by a blade or overcome by sickness. Galbatorix's dragon had already died, but to everyone's surprise, he continued to stay at the same age. The king was so skilled in the dark arts that he had sustained his life force with magic. Although he had a seemingly endless amount of energy, Galbatorix found his resources waning. Magic used in both the past and the present were causing his steady stream of energy to percolate into a slight drip.

Galbatorix had used magic to complete all of his goals. He had used magic to bond himself with his current dragon, whose efforts to break free seemed to try the Black King even more than before. He had used magic to make himself not age ever since his dragon's gift of immortality had been taken away from him.

Galbatorix had a huge stream of magic coming from all the corrupted Eldunarí he had gathered over the years, but the stream was put to constant use. The little trickles of strength from the spells he had cast over his many years had eventually adjoined to use up almost his entire energy intake.

Once he had sparred with Morzan in his throne room and collapsed shortly after the start of the duel. The king needed to summon strength from the Eldunarí in his control to continue the fight, blaming the collapse on a slight headache and a misstep. Nobody was stupid enough to think his words had an ounce of truth in them, but no one ever questioned the king. Galbatorix never got headaches let alone mis-stepped. He was perfect. Galbatorix thought little of his condition. He was always strong when he needed to be and his rare appearance outside of the castle still showed the people why he should be worshipped as a god.

Galbatorix's true age was unknown, but he assumed the appearance of a 45 year old man which he thought brought together perfectly the youthfulness he wanted people to think he possessed, and the experience which made them willingly follow him. His beard was a blend of black and grey and which was also present in his short haircut. The king's mouth seemed to be twisted in a perpetual malicious. A lean fellow, he stood just taller than Morzan and was always dressed in a black suit of armor made from his current dragon's scales.

Morzan cast another glance at the large sleeping lump in the back of the room. Some guard dog Shruiken would make, he thought. Morzan knew Galbatorix wasn't stupid enough to let Shruiken guard anything of importance. The dragon would most likely eat the object or simply crush it. The thought summoned an image of Shruiken driving to eat the gold in the treasury. This thought made Morzan mentally smile, still giddy from his chance to redeem himself and finally break free, proving he was not completely consumed by evil.

Morzan's inward smile vanished when Galbatorix finally spoke. The king's familiar rich, satin-smooth voice reached every corner of the room. Along his voice, came a cold and calculating underlying tone. "Was your trip successful?"

Morzan cringed. His trip. Now came the hard part. Now comes the part where I must pull the wool over the ever-so-cunning fox's eyes. It all came down to this: the object of his pondering ever since early this morning. It had been no easy task to convince Galbatorix to let Morzan deliver his wife's second child himself, and even harder to completely seal off the conscious of the child to the world. Galbatorix had only agreed because the woman giving birth was part of the Black Hand.

"It went exactly as planned," replied Morzan, making sure to keep his tone even and ever so silky smooth.

"Then where is this child you have promised me?" The rider's breath caught in his throat.

"I promised you no such thing. I owe you nothing," spat Morzan. Galbatorix shifted slightly in his throne, annoyance apparent on his face.

"Morzan," Galbatorix said in a threatening tone, "I thought we came to an understanding about your child."

Morzan's brain and body rushed with adrenaline and the rider grabbed the first excuse he could find. "The baby is not healthy enough to travel. He is with Selena until he is strong enough."

Galbatorix crooned, his voice melted into pure honey. "You of all people should know that both your wife and your child will be taken excellent care of."

Morzan cursed inwardly. The king knows. He knows that I'm lying. Morzan tried to continue on, desperate to find a way to make the lie work. "I would be happier if he could stay behind with Selena. She was unhappy last time I brought her here to tend to Murtagh." The rider shuddered at the thought of another child going through what Murtagh did, even if it wasn't his own.

Brom had warned Morzan about the threat of lying to Galbatorix while his bonds were still constricting him. He had once again underestimated the king, and he was going to pay dearly for his mistake. Brom is going to pay for my mistake, thought Morzan sorrowfully. Morzan had cloaked Brom in an invisibility spell along with his child shortly after the child's birth. Even though Brom and Selena were the parents of the children Morzan delivered, Morzan had consented to take the heat for the baby – She is, after all, my wife.

"Come now, Morzan. You've seen your first boy. Taking him away from his mother made him stronger. Isn't that what you want for your second? For him to be strong?"

Morzan kept on fighting a battle he had already lost. "I promise, sire, that after a year I will bring him here. Just let him have a year with mother." And his father, thought Morzan with a twinge of bitterness. The conversation had already brought up the bad memory of his friend's betrayal.

Morzan had come back to his stronghold from burning yet another small village which had resisted Galbatorix's reign. Already sorrowful from ending so many lives, the last thought he would have imagined to see was another dragon Rider in bed with his wife of many years. He found Brom, the blue Rider, sleeping in his bed.

Brom had once been a great friend to Morzan, but being on different sides had torn them apart.

Morzan had been shocked and enraged to see Brom, in his house with his wife. Morzan assumed Brom's love for Selena had been dismissed once they joined opposite sides of the war.

Anger consumed the red rider and within seconds, Morzan had backed Brom into a corner at sword-point, spewing out insults and heavy accusations. Morzan had barked at Selena, ordering her to get out while the men discussed their matters, but she stood her ground.

Brom calmly explained the situation and Morzan surprised himself: he forgave Brom. At that time Morzan hoped that it would be his reprieve for joining Galbatorix if he let Brom go. But little did he know his wife was pregnant with Brom's child.

A while after the encounter, Morzan met with Brom in the dark of night outside his castle's walls where Brom had been working undercover as a gardener. They came to an agreement that Brom could keep the child, since Morzan's child, Murtagh, already lived within the castle walls. Morzan would keep Galbatorix in the dark about the second child, and they would raise the children on opposite sides of the war until one of the child's safety was threatened. At this point, Selena would venture out to join Brom and to keep the child safe.

Morzan never told either of them that he planned to commit suicide after the deal was over, but it was inferred that he would never be seen or heard from again. He had run out of choices. This was Morzan's last recourse. He had been the ruthless right-hand-man of the king for too long, and had made too many enemies. The blood staining his hands was so great that no amount of good or sacrifice could redeem him.

Morzan drew himself out of his memories. He had to act quickly. The king saw through the veil he was trying to weave. Morzan quickly murmured a spell he had already rehearsed many times. It was a spell of summoning given to him by the guardian spirit land of Alagaesia. He didn't have enough time to send both his child and his wife to Brom, so he only recited half of the incantation. In a blink of light, his only child was cast out to join its half-brother. Cast out to Brom and the second child.

As the final words of the incantation left Morzan's mouth, bolts of pure energy sprang from Galbatorix's hand and hit him square in the chest. Morzan was knocked off of his feet. The rider slid across the floor. Morzan slowly got to his feet, a hard, determined look passed over him. "You can defeat me Galbatorix. Strike me down as you may, but you have already lost."

"I cannot lose. You of all people should know that. Have you forgotten? I killed Vrael and his dragon. Nobody will ever oppose my rule. When all who resist my rule are destroyed, along with your child, I will finally make peace for all Alagaesia!" Galbatorix was standing now. His eyes wore dark and stormy. His voice shed any façade of pleasantry and only exuded power and anger.

Unsheathing his red sword, Morzan prepared to face his master. The master who had betrayed tricked him. The master who threw the dragon riders into chaos. His master no more. Morzan was done being a toy for Galbatorix's amusement. Done being a pawn. Done being manipulated.

Just as his sword came out of its sheath, Galbatorix had already closed the gap between them, jet black sword lashing out from the left and jet black tail with spikes from the right. Morzan desperately tried to avoid both by back-pedaling and blindly throwing up his sword. The ruby sword barely caught the obsidian one, causing the black blade to miss its mark, but still draw a crimson line down Morzan's arm. Morzan hissed and swung his sword around, hoping to connect with flesh, but before the word could get anywhere, a blast of magic pinned him against a wall and a massive dragon paw followed after. The impact jarred Morzan's arm and the blood-red sword clattered to the ground.

That should have ended it, but Morzan was determined to break free. Summoning his magic, he quickly stated to recite spells. Shruiken roared in pain, and drew back his paw. The magical restraint broke and Morzan slid down the wall to the ground, a sanguine streak marked the black wall.

Morzan looked down at his side to see a large chunk of flesh was taken out by Shruiken's claw. Blood quickly soaked his tattered tunic and dripped down to the marble floor. Morzan extended his mind and desperately tried to call his nameless dragon. Ever since the dragons of the Forsworn were stripped of their very being, he had been unable to contact his dragon. And it was all my fault, thought Morzan, parrying another killing blow from Galbatorix and ducking simultaneously as Shruiken's tail whizzed over the top of his head. The sharp pain of the gaping wound kept him attentive to his surroundings.

Morzan's dragon was completely out of his control. It was bound to Morzan by the deepest of connections, but yet its true name had changed so much it wasn't even regarded as an object. Morzan couldn't even talk to his dragon accept for sending it words or pictures.

Morzan ducked and parried with all his might, but the sheer force of Galbatorix's slashes, forced the red rider to always be on defense, and never get a chance to strike. His body was already littered by small cuts and gashes. Galbatorix's eyes, had taken on a steely glint. The king wasn't playing cat and mouse anymore. Feeding of the strength of the Eldunarí, he increased both the strength of his blows and the sharpness of his mental strikes. But Morzan fought back with his whole being and Galbatorix was met with a bright red sword and a mental wall of sheer hate.

Galbatorix would have been impressed. The black king strove to increase the hate in the Forsworn, spurring them on to become even more dangerous enemies. Hate clouded the mind from seeing the truth, which is exactly what Galbatorix wanted. The king had instilled so much hate towards his enemies in some Forsworn that he was sure they would never rebel against him.

Morzan had been the only one of the Forsworn who had not pledged their allegiance to Galbatorix. The red rider always thought Galbatorix was right and completely agreed with his ideals. Galbatorix's trust in Morzan was deep, but the dark king still wove a little magic around Morzan to keep his ideals the same.

Galbatorix smiled. It was time to end this petty fight. He murmured a spell under his breath, immobilizing Morzan. Morzan furiously tried to struggle, but the restraint was absolute. Galbatorix picked a stone from the ground and quickly made a fairth of his servant's face.

"Beautiful," Galbatorix exclaimed, stepping back to examine his handiwork. "Now when you child comes to get revenge against me, I can show him what I did to his father. It may make him think twice about betraying my trust. Now, for you, Morzan." Galbatorix sighed, "Don't you realize; I always win." The dark king strode up to Morzan and slowly circled the rider. "You were the best of the best. Unbeatable. Your loyalty unwavering. I hope you understand that you and you alone will be responsible for the horrors I must perform to my future servants. Maybe one day your own son will suffer through the process of spiritual bonding only because you didn't have the foresight to spare your family."

Sweat accumulated on Morzan's brow. An unspoken spell broke Galbatorix's hold, and Morzan immediately swung his red blade, arching it beautifully through the sky before it came to rest on the neck of Galbatorix. "Every champion can lose." Morzan twisted his lips into a sly smile.

Galbatorix simply smiled back "Noble but foolish." Morzan side stepped and brought his blade to swipe across the king's exposed flesh. In a flash, Morzan collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. The red rider clutched his neck. A familiar warm, sticky substance met his fingers. Blood. Morzan stood up and glared at Galbatorix, a wound similar to his just finished healing.

Morzan hissed as the pain continued to be present. A quick healing spell of his own knitted his skin back together.

"You seem surprised. Did you think I was stupid? Did you not think that I hadn't set up necessary precautions? No one can defeat me without defeating themselves. I'm done playing games, Morzan. This should finally teach you a lesson."

As Galbatorix spoke, Morzan quickly sifted through his memories, throwing away all the memories of Brom's son into the fire of his hate for the world. He left only one memory behind: his parting handshake with Brom: his only memory of his old friend and companion. The red rider left evidence of the new boy and his wife, giving Galbatorix what he wanted to see.

Morzan lingered on his memories, reluctant to let them go, but as black bonds flickered into existence around Morzan's mind, he let the memories disappear forever. In his haste, Morzan had left shadows of his memories.

Galbatorix started to recite a string of incantations. As the string left the king's mouth, Morzan's mind was swept into a world of black magic. Time lost all meaning as Galbatorix continued to weave his magic.

"I have sifted through all your memories and I see how you meant to shape the future. You are a pitiful soul. Even your wife wasn't satisfied—she ran off with Brom. Brom was a valuable Rider to the old order and he must be stopped. I order you and your dragon to kill Brom, his dragon, his son, and your current wife, Selena. You will proceed to destroy everyone who has any seeds of resistance in them. After this is done, you may do what you want with your pitiful existence." Galbatorix stopped for a moment to think. "You cannot kill anyone else besides people opposed to my rule, people who attack you, and your targets." Galbatorix smiled cruelly. "Happy hunting, my slave." The thought of what Morzan would carry out made the king's lips twist up into a big smile.

Morzan's face turned as white as a sheet, but as his new bonds forced his to kneel, he just managed to grind out "Your will be done, ebrithil," before he doubled over and threw up, crumpling to the ground at Galbatorix's feet.

_

_Galbatorix_

Despicable servant, Galbatorix thought as he used a spell to clean Morzan's dinner out of his red carpet. Galbatorix casually returned to his throne. With a flick of his fingers, a servant was called to take Morzan's bloody body back to his room, and for the rider's wounds to be healed.

The sound of Shruiken's rumbling laughter sent a pang of pain to his heart. Galbatorix let his thoughts wander to his memories of his old dragon. Shruiken would never fill the void left by Jarnunvösk, but he would come close enough. The thought that Shuriken could ever replace his beloved Jarnunvösk disgusted Galbatorix, but he had to maintain his power and his image and Shruiken was his solution. His throne suddenly felt uncomfortable.

Upset with himself, the king slinked off to his bedroom, passing through the room full of unconscious dragons imprisoned within their own sanctuaries. The Eldunarí were only painful reminders that if Jarnunvösk disgorged his heart of hearts before the fateful night of the Urgal attack, he would still be alive.

The loss of his companion for life created a massive whole in the king's heart that was only filled by dark, raw hatred. Hate for the dragon riders for not preparing them for the world. Hate for himself for not being able to defend the only thing that ever mattered in his life. Hate for the Urgals for killing his partner-of-his-heart-and-mind. Hate for the world for being so cruel.

Ever since Jarnunvösk had entered the void, Galbatorix had been plagued by dreams of his majestic dragon. Jarnunvösk's angular face would always appear, and Galbatorix was cursed with replaying the last moments of his dragon's life. The once strong creature lying on the ground, light fading from its eyes, and Galbatorix could do nothing about it as blood soaked the ground.

Hate permeated his dreams. He had dreams of blood lust for that of the elder riders. Each and every rider would suffer for what they had done to him. Each rider and their dragon would all perish at his sword.

Galbatorix mourned for all that perished with his dragon. His happiness. His love. His life. The king was a great tyrant. His rule stretched far and wide across Alagaësia, yet the king felt so insignificant without the presence of Jarnunvösk. Galbatorix lived his life with a numbness that was only shed in battle. The king sighed. What would you have said? Galbatorix thought to his dead dragon. What would you have wanted?

There was a pause. The absence of a response only reinforced the hate and pain building up inside him.

Certainly not this, Galbatorix replied to himself. This was the path I chose to take when I was young and naïve. Galbatorix scowled at himself. Angry that he was having doubts about being the most powerful man in Alagaësia. The king resolutely settled his doubts. This is what you wanted, this is what I want. I am doing this all for you.

Galbatorix had reached his bed chambers. The king took a seat in one of the chairs. You told me to live. You ordered me to live! I swore in the ancient language to live on if you passed! "You ordered me to live!" Galbatorix roared at the empty bed. The king stood up quickly and knocked off valuables from the nearby table. The gold chalice and plates clattered to the ground, the sound bounced off the stone walls. "I did what was necessary for me to live," murmured Galbatorix.

"None shall ever take your place," he whispered, staring into a gold rimmed mirror. There was a long pause. Galbatorix stared intently at his reflection, thinking that only if he looked hard enough he could see the man Jarnunvösk wished for in his last moments of life.

The king's eyes became stormy, his searching was fruitless. No matter how much Galbatorix looked, the man that Jarnunvösk wanted was gone. The only thing that looked back was a shadow of a man. A shadow of a man whose heart was so poisoned with hate, darkness, and pain that it the damage was irreversible. Galbatorix hated the thing that started back at him. In a fit of rage, the dark king punched the mirror, glass shards flew in all directions, falling to the ground with a graceful sound of tinkling bells.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Galbatorix was yelling now. "You said that it was your Wyrda! Your destiny to contribute to the unification of Alagaësia!" Galbatorix ripped the jewel-encrusted gold crown off his head and held it high above his head. "I succeeded! Your death was the cause for the unification of our great land under me: King Galbatorix!" Galbatorix threw down his crown. It clattered loudly on the stone floor, some of the jewels flew off and skittered across the floor, the gold piece skid across the floor until it hit the wall where a fairth of Jarnunvösk hung.

_

_Shruiken_

Moments of silence through the castle. Shruiken's low voice filled Galbatorix's stormy mind. You could order the red rider to bring back the blue alive. Slaying the blue rider's dragon and child in front of his eyes would be the ultimate form of revenge! Shruiken's unmistakable rumble of laughter shook the very foundation of Urû'baen.

The thought of this brought Galbatorix back to his normal self. A cruel smile appeared on the dark king's face, followed by a cackle of laughter. You are right, my dragon. Galbatorix was pacing back and forth in his bed chamber. Morzan will bring them all here to me. Killing his wife will break that puny rider and killing Brom, his dragon, and his son will destroy him. Galbatorix's eye's sparkled with the thought of the pain he could instill. We will get the chance to watch Brom suffer. Yes, Morzan will take them all alive!

Galbatorix summoned Shruiken to his window. Once on the back of the black dragon, a small seed of pain came back. He missed flying with Jarnunvösk. He missed that level of trust.

Shruiken was listening to Galbatorix's thoughts. Am I not worthy of that kind of trust? Shruiken was hurt.

It's not to say I don't trust you, we only don't have the same level of companionship. Because you are my second Rider bond, it just doesn't feel the same. We don't connect on the same level. Yes we have killed many a foe together, and we have gone through good times as well as bad, but you don't have a choice in the matter. You stay with me because I tell you to. You couldn't ever go against my word or challenge my judgment. Jarnunvösk could very well have thrown me from his back if death was what he wanted for me and himself. You are different my friend. You may be willing to comply, but the same result could also be achieved if you wanted to defy my authority. Galbatorix spoke through his mind in the ancient language, ensuring every single bit was true.

I am a dragon. We are the most powerful race ever to be created, our fates woven into time and the very fate of Alagaesia itself! Shruiken's anger started to blind his better judgment. You couldn't hope to defeat me. You are only a human! I am the greatest dragon of them all, Shruiken!

Galbatorix snapped. His eyebrows furrowed into a V. "Letta," commanded Galbatorix. He and his dragon started to descend, Shruiken's feeble attempts to belly roll and throw his Rider off his back were over. Shruiken's wings were held still unfurled in mid-beat. Galbatorix used magic to funnel the air under Shruiken's massive wings and eventually touched down his massive dragon with a simple spell, not releasing Shruiken from his magical grasp.

Galbatorix jumped off the dragon's back. The king waltzed past a massive blue-white eye that held nothing but resent. Galbatorix glared back with equal intensity. "Never, think that you are more powerful than me."

The dark king waved his hand and with a spell, Shruiken's wings were locked into the painful position and bolts of energy sent into his eyes, blinding him.

"I hope that this teaches you a lesson. I can be just as powerful without you." And with that Galbatorix strode away towards Morzan's castle.

Shruiken unleashed roar after roar filled with pain and anger all throughout the night.

_Galbatorix_

It didn't take the Black King long to find Morzan. He was sitting in a chair in his study, glass in hand. Morzan sluggishly turned his head to look at the new arrival to his study. His eyes were glazed over and rimmed in red: a tell-tale sign that he had been drinking heavily. Morzan's slow brain didn't register what was happening and reached for his sword.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you", the ice in his voice breaching the surface behind his emotionless faҫade. Galbatorix looked down at the blade, it was coated in a sheen of blood. Zar'roc seemed to shine with a lust for more blood. So he has done it, Galbatorix thought to himself. The sight of blood made Galbatorix feel alive.

Galbatorix sighed. "Ah, if only I was here to see you break."

Morzan snarled. His primal side surfacing through the haze of alcohol. Galbatorix turned his back on a still snarling Morzan.

"Now where is the body?" Galbatorix asked with sick fascination. The king rounded the corner eager with anticipation. The scene that greeted him would make any sane man turn around and never come back again, but Galbatorix simply grinned with delight.

A bloody corpse lay on his mattress, blood still oozed out of the stab wound. A fine mist covered the wall. Galbatorix brought his finger and drew a line of blood across the wall, his eyes fixed on the trail. The dark king drew his attention back to the body on the bed.

The woman who lay on the mattress was beautiful. She was garbed only in a nightgown which tastefully fit the curves of her body. In a her limp, lifeless hand, she held an elven dagger with an edge honed to perfection. There was a slight pulsing of blue magic by the edges of the dagger: Brom.

Galbatorix started to extend his hand to examine the dagger, but pulled back in disgust. He didn't want to touch what the garbage of a rider touched.

A creaking of wood caused Galbatorix to spin around. Morzan was standing in the door frame, tears in his eyes. "Morzan, I have an assignment for you."

Morzan slowly lowered himself to his knees, seeming to fight the action with every muscle in his body.

"What is your will my master?"****

**_  
>Clarification: Brom still has his Saphira<strong>


	6. Sweet Revenge

AGAIN, IF YOU HAVEN'T REREAD THE REVISIONS, PLEASE DO SO, PARTICULARLY THE FIRST SENTENCE IN THE THIRD CHAPTER... trust me it makes sense

Hello Everyone. I am planning on increasing the size of my chapters, so bear with me. Updates may come a little slower... maybe you can fill the extra time between chapters with writing reviews!

Thanks to reviewers (sorry no names for this one... trying to get this up fast).

Lengthy update time has been caused by beta trouble. Sorry guys. These chapters were written a while ago.

Yes all the pieces will come together. I will probably revisit the first few chapters later and redo them... but most of you probably skipped this and just went on to reading... if you actually read this, please tell me in your review (that is if you do end up reviewing). Maybe it isn't even worth the time to write these for every chapter.

Yes I will be coming back to Eragon and Arya's story next chapter (no they are not coming together yet... not for a long time considering I am going from Eragon's birth. I suppose I will put them together in about 6-7 chapters... maybe 5-6 if people review (people they will meet in 6-7 chapters. they won't be in love yet. sparks will fly!) :). Flashback time is almost over. Sorry for the filler people, it had to be done.

There is a battle to be fought! (Applause for 5k chapters... please tell me if you like them).

Slight Clarification, yes Brom AND Oromis know about Galbatorix's source for power, but they deem it too frightening/angering to tell their young Rider trainees until later. Also, Eragon has been lost through time because Morzan's spell didn't send him to Brom. Brom has Murtagh.

_Morzan_

"Rise Morzan, Brom's time has come. Bring him to me". The warmer undercurrents of Galbatorix's voice surprised Morzan he shakily tried to come to his feet with no avail, Galbatorix held out his hand as a kind of gesture of friendship. _If friendship was even possible at this point, _Morzan thought amused Galbatorix would even try to repent for enslaving him. He had taken the life of yet another being at the command of Galbatorix, and he was sure the scene of his wife's death would haunt him for the rest of his days...

_Selena had been suspicious the moment Morzan sent the baby away out of her clutches, but yet she was still standing in the same spot as before. The little boy had been viciously ripped out of her arms, and she would have been surprised had the baby not suffered a slight injury at the jerking motion. She immediately started packing to go to the Varden, presuming Morzan had been forced to tell Galbatorix about their little plan, and she swore she would give him hell for prematurely causing the seperation between her and little baby Eragon._

_Morzan had stepped in the door just as she started changing into her black leather armor, a gift from the elves. He had called out her in a strangely pitiful and sorrowful voice, urging her to come and comfort him, presumably from his encounter with Galbatorix. Wearing nothing but her nightgown, she was about to round the corner into the study where she thought her husband would be sulking, only to find Morzan walking steadily toward her without any swing in his gate, his face stone cold and emotionless, only betrayed by his sorrowful voice._

"_I'm sorry". Were the only words out of Morzan's mouth as Selena found herself grabbed by the mouth, covering her shrieks as she was pushed backward onto the bed. Any other time, she would have thought Morzan was only feeling a little playful, wanting a little celebration for his good deeds, but this time she knew it was serious. In a mere second, her enchanted dagger was out of the folds of her undergarments and reaching up to find a more secure foothold on Morzan's face, but Morzan was quicker and far more deadly, a his cruel red sword was already angled wickedly down at her heart. Unable to score more than a few minor hits on Morzan's body, she was incapable of preventing him as he slowly pressed down on the blade, face twisted in agony. Morzan slid his blade through his former lover's heart, watching painfully as it came out of her upper back, the color in her cheeks slowly starting to fade away as her blood cascaded down, discoloring his mattress and coating his blade which was gleaming wickedly in the candlelight. Morzan was splashed with the blood of his wife as he extracted his blade, wiping it clean on his now blood soaked mattress._

He rejected Galbatorix's hand as he stood on his own and strode out of the room. He could imagine the look of shock on Galbatorix's face at his refusal, but he bid himself not turn around to examine it in reality. He would show the King no compassion. He promised he would make Galbatorix regret the day he cast the dark spells of enslavement. He was certain nobody else would make idle discussion with Galbatorix; he would leave the old man alone to his own thoughts, without a companion. He would take and keep the only thing he could from the King, his friendship.

Morzan made his way up to the keep where Galbatorix's black beast was still holding in the same ridiculous position, his wings extended, and his tears burning into the stone floor. Casting only a brief glance in Shruikan's direction, Morzan mounted his own steed. _That is actually what my dragon has come to these days. He is a steed, nothing more_, Morzan remarked, his mental voice taking on a mournful tone as he remembered his old dragon before it was stripped of its name. His dragon was once one of the brightest in the order, discovering new ways to fly and to predict weather, helping even the greatest Riders in the order. Now his dragon was no more than a shell, the mind which it once encased ceased to exist. Striding to his nameless dragon, he ordered it to take off, guiding it with mental pictures of where he wanted to go.

"Draumr Kopa" shouted Morzan over the howling winds, looking down upon a small mirror he held in the palm of his hand as Brom's worried face materialized in the crystalline object.

"Morzan, I thought I wouldn't be hearing from you for a number of years", Brom's gruff voice shone through the sounds of dancing and festivities. "I have only just made it back home".

Brom's voice brought pangs of guilt to the surface of Morzan's heart. He had just finished killing the lover of his old friend, and he was on his way to deliver his friend's doom. Brom was a rugged outdoors-man, not afraid to spend extended periods of time roaming in the woods with only a fire and countless animals to keep him company. _Maybe that is why the elf-kind is always so friendly and welcoming to him, even though he is still a human Rider_. Brom was always dressed in his black studded leather armor with his blue sword belted to his waist and a traveling cloak thrown over his shoulder in a careless fashion. Brom had a beard, distinguishing him from most of the Riders who generally liked to keep their faces as clean as possible. The ability to shave so easily with magic was probably an influence...

Drawing himself back to the task at hand, Morzan decided to begin with sarcasm, "Why you aren't happy to see me?", smiling to pass his words off as a joke. It was clearly a forced smile, but then again nobody did smile in these lands anymore. It was a rare opportunity when a person could let go of their duties and obligations, their hates and loves, and smile solely for the purpose of expressing their happiness, something which was in extremely short supply.

Unperturbed, Brom shot him a warning look, "What Morzan?"

"Things have changed Brom. We no longer have the upper hand. Selena and I are coming after you and Saphira. Where are you?" Brom paused for a short second as he evaluated the situation.

"You are clearly not unsettled by this news Morzan, and it makes me worried. Repeat what you said to me in the Ancient Language" Morzan cringed. _I need to become a better liar. I do this way to often_. Morzan could feel the perspiration building underneath the cloth of his day attire.

Guided by his bonds, he quickly regurgitated the news in the Ancient Language, telling only a piece of the true story. "I am traveling with my dragon to your location, traveling away from King Galbatorix".

"Damn you Morzan!" Brom shouted. "You turned didn't you. Selena... if you hurt her I swear on my mother's grave I will end your pitiful existence." Morzan felt a lump growing in the back of his throat. Realizing Morzan was not going to reply, Brom shouted, "YOU KILLED HER DIDN'T YOU! I will find you, and I will send you and your shameful excuse of a dragon to the depths of hell!"

The conversation came to an abrupt end as Morzan quickly saw the skin of a hand, the sky, the ground, and blackness in quick succession. The images of Brom walking away weeping were shown through the fragments of his shattered mirror. Recognizing the constellations and the trees shown in Brom's fading connection only confirmed Morzan's suspicion of the location of Brom's home; Morzan quickly urged his dragon to go to the outskirts of Esmeralda and with a roar of recognition, the dragon sped off. He would meet Brom soon; just thinking about killing a good friend and his friend's children made him sick to the stomach. Throwing up over the side of his nameless dragon, Morzan let his destiny sink in. He would still be remembered as the traitor who killed Brom and his children before shamefully taking his own life. Morzan sat atop his red steed crying his heart out, wishing Brom knew what really happened before his life was ended on Zar'roc's deadly point, the same point which had killed Brom's lover. Brom was not a particularly strong Rider, but his skills with the spoken word were legendary. Even Morzan himself, long ago, picked on the blue Rider for his way with words, joking he should one day settle down and become a storyteller for a small village where he could happily talk nights away captivating the minds of all who cared to listen. Morzan had no doubt in his mind Brom would fail. Morzan had always been better than him with the sword and at magic, despite Brom's aptitude for fire magic. Still weeping for the loss of his wife, and now the inherent loss of a good friend, Morzan and his nameless dragon flew through the night, hoping to make the death of the blue Rider come as quickly as possible. Morzan's bonds didn't give him another choice, he truly wanted the end of the man who cheated on him with his wife to come as quickly as possible. Morzan didn't think twice about being so eager to kill Brom as his mind filled with artificial anger and hate. Morzan spoke to his dragon, _At this rate we will make the forest of the Elves by midnight, and we will arrive at the capitol shortly after dawn. Prepare yourself to do battle against another dragon. By tomorrow evening, we shall have the blood we came for. _A grunt was the only acknowledgement he got, but it was the most he had gotten out of his dragon in a long while. _Soon we will leave this world. I await that day with open arms._ He knew his dragon couldn't understand, but talking to it was strangely soothing. _Old times, old times..._

Drifting in and out of his slumber, Morzan was rudely awoken by the magical boundary which separated the elves from the vile humans and kept them in seclusion from the rest of the world. Being a Rider, Morzan passed through easily, eagerly awaiting his chance to finally even the score with Brom, Morzan and his dragon soared on, amused by the sight of empty villages who's occupants unsuitably went into hiding. _Even the oldest and most powerful of the races hides from us!_ Morzan thought with glee.

Morzan felt his mind being twisted. He shouldn't be eager to kill his best friend, but yet he was. His very essence was contradicting himself as he began to descend toward Vrael's old tree, and Brom's current residence. The lush green forest was usually packed with all things wild, but on this dark day, it was completely devoid of life. Esmeralda was perhaps one of the most beautiful cities in all of Alagaesia, rivaled only by the city of Illirea when it had been the Elven capitol. Not even the dwarves' pride and glory, Farthen Dur, could compete with the architecture of the Elves. The elves had their own special way of intertwining nature with their architecture in a way that increased the beauty of both; built with gracefulness passed off as simple as only an elf could. Morzan passed over multiple abandoned tree cities, the Elven inhabitants undoubtedly lurking deep within the underbrush near their elegantly crafted homes.

The elves hid in fear of what he would do to them, but then again, he had only come into the center of the Elven Kingdom for one man, Brom. With his especially sharp eyesight, Morzan picked up one lone figure in the distance, cloaked in an aura of gold and blue, leaving him looking like the essence of a god. _Brom cast blue magic, but I never knew elves casted in gold! _Morzan thought aloud, a twinge of fear striking at his heart. Morzan suddenly understood his thinking was extremely flawed. The elves were not hiding in fear, it simply wasn't their fight. The Elven people possessed extremely powerful magic, and Morzan had no doubt he would have been defeated had the elves wanted to defend their majestic lands, but no, it was Brom's fight. Not even Galbatorix himself had ventured this far into the Elven territories, out of fear of the ancient people who lived on this land, but now, Morzan, servant of evil, was going to Esmeralda, the center of the most powerful enemy nation in Alagaesia to betray another of his own kind, a dragon Rider.

_Galbatorix must have something planned for my escape. He would not enslave me, order me to capture Brom, and leave me to my own devices to get Brom home... _The use of the word home had shocked Morzan out of his own thoughts. He had no place he called home, Urû'bean was a prison, not a home, Morzan thought, disgusted with himself. It was here Morzan realized the second flaw in his thinking: he was not to make it out of Du Weldenvarden alive. He was to kill as many of Galbatorix's disloyal subjects as possible before his own life was taken. _How in the world am I supposed to get Brom back to Urû'baen if I am dead?_

Unable to come up with an answer, Morzan finally touched down in a clearing just outside of the Elven city, coming to stand across from Brom, who bore a grim look on his face. Brom was adept at many things, but not quite elf-like enough to hide the hatred in his eyes as he tried to quell the feelings of hatred before the coming battle. Morzan on the other hand had a look of pure sorrow, his once blue eyes fading to a dead brown. Their swords, held tightly in their twin grasps, stood drawn and ready, eager to taste blood once more.

Brom was the first to speak, "Why?"

Unable to tell him the root cause of his betrayal, Morzan projected his memories to all, opening his mind to the hundreds of elves hidden in the brush surrounding their makeshift arena.

Morzan flashed through his memories, at least the ones he had left - _His own blood coating the wall as the black tail tore through his side, Galbatorix's bonds of ice eating into his wrists as he was enslaved, his oaths to the king of darkness, his wife's blood staining his hands as he cried, holding her limp body in his arms..._

Morzan's memories seemed to soften the look of pure hatred on Brom's face, and the daggering glare of Saphira was also erased, replaced with one of pity mirroring her Rider's. At the end of Morzan's train of painful memories, he was left reeling, trying to comprehend what was was going on around him. Brom was equally dazed, and with an unspoken agreement, Brom jumped onto the back of his blue dragoness while Morzan clambered softly up to the neck of his own dragon. Taking to the skies, both dragons circled upward, looking for openings in their opponent's defences. Red intertwined with blue as they came together in a purple streak, diving to reach the ground before the other, and pulling up at the last moment, the winner, Saphira taking the high ground as Morzan's nameless dragon followed, only to be met with Saphira's tail in his face. Morzan no longer felt the pain of his bonded dragon, ever since his dragon had lost it's very essence, banished from his noble race. Quickly casting a healing spell which sapped little of his strength, Morzan sedated his dragon's pain as well as replacing the the armored scales which had only seconds ago been torn off by the opposing dragon's tail. Cursing, Morzan realized he had forgotten to place wards around his dragon and around himself. Quickly formulating the spells to protect them both from any harm which could come to them, Morzan cast his creations just before another impact threatened to jar him from his seat. Looking quickly behind him, Morzan saw Saphira's mouth closed around air at the tip of his dragon's tale, instantly depleting a large portion of his energy. Once again, Morzan began muttering as he took away some of the shields around him, realizing the energy depletion of the ward could kill him even if the blow wouldn't.

Still recovering his spent energy from the ruby housed in the pummel of his sword, Morzan saw Saphira open her maw wide, a spark coming from deep in her belly and smoldering on her tongue just before a torrent of blue light bathed the figures of the red dragon and his Rider. Killing the rest of his wards, a weakened Morzan drew the last of the energy from his pommel. Turning 'round to come about for yet another pass, Morzan summoned a warelight in front of his fellow Rider's face while he stabbed at Saphira's head, finally evening the score as her wards collapsed and his sword met her side with a sickening sound of metal shrieking against metal.

Saphira, hissing angrily, used her agile form to twist and face Morzan's dragon midair. Sparks flying from her open maw. Both dragons unleashed torrents of fire at the other, fighting for dominance. A massive purple ball of incomprehensible energy formed between the two enraged dragons as they continued to add their breath to the mix, neither one succeeding in overcoming the other. As quickly as their scrimmage started both dragons went cold in their bellies, their fires, being depleted, quickly dissipated, leaving a stunned Morzan and Brom to muse at what happened when the fire of the two dragons had connected. Streaks of the pure blue hue of Saphira's scales were left on the unnamed dragon's red hide and face, stretching to his tale. Saphira's scales were splattered with the blood red color of Morzan's dragon, stretching across her face, making her look even more fearsome than before. The two dragons shared an unmistakable bond; they both had a piece of the other inside which had been locked away for eternity until the fire had melted the bonds, releasing the goodness in Morzan's dragon and releasing the hatred in Saphira. Both Brom and Morzan had the strange feeling that their dragons had changed forever; Brom faced with the madness and anger which had ignited in Saphira's heart and Morzan faced with a goodness which threatened to tear his broken heart from his chest.

Atop the backs of their dragons, Morzan and Brom fought like true Riders; they clashed with their swords as well as with magic, each one straining to protect his dragon as well as himself from the fury of cuts and slashes. Morzan recieved a large gash across his back as Brom passed by him, reversing his sword and attacking from behind, allowing momentum to painfully tear his sword from the other Rider's back. Although Morzan had been dealt a serious blow, he had managed to tear Saphira's wing membrane with his sword, causing her to plummet a few hundred feet before stabilizing herself enough for Brom to heal her injury. At the same time, Morzan cast a healing spell on his back, and his unnamed dragon dived back into the fray, blood-red fire leaping from his maw. Saphira faced upward just in time to save her Rider from getting burnt to a crisp, but sustained grievous injuries herself, her belly scales blackened enough to blend in with the color of night.

__Brom_

_Saphira, Oromis cast wards around me to protect from fire as well as tooth, claw, and impacts! Don't be stupid, your shields have long worn away while mine still stand! It would have been much easier to let my wards take the heat. _ Brom hardly ever criticised his dragon's actions, most likely because she was the wisest being he had ever known. She was always right. _Land and I will face Morzan on the ground. His wards are gone, but I still have a few left. Just keep his dragon busy until I can finish him._

Saphira responded with a grunt as she hurtled to the ground, her Rider leaping off and using a levitation spell mere seconds before he hit the ground. _Remember, Morzan has always been stronger than you. Don't be hasty... Fight for the lives of your children!_ With a mighty roar, Saphira dug her claws into the ground, lifting off to give chase to the red dragon who had just deposited Morzan on the ground. With renewed vigor, Saphira angrily charged the unnamed dragon, sending them both sprawling on the ground, not caring what kind of damage it caused them.

In the meantime, Brom and Morzan crossed the field until they reached the center, Galbatorix's spells urging Morzan to go faster and kill Brom on the spot. Spurred on by the memories of his lover and his children, Brom finally broke the momentary truce, sword raging down upon Morzan, making arc after seamless arc. Neither of the two men were elves, but their Rider's gifts certainly bestowed them with uncanny speed and quickness. Nimbly sidestepping a sweeping cut from the red Rider, Brom silently cursed trying to gain the upper hand, dodging killing blow after killing blow, and letting some of his remaining wards take the hits against Morzan's sword. When the nimbus of gold and blue surrounding Brom finally wore out, both Riders were equally exhausted, but with Morzan's superior skill with the sword, he had sustained only minor cuts which he could heal during the course of battle while Brom's wards had saved his life at least a dozen times.

Pulling the last of the energy from the pommel of his sword, Brom stepped back and was surprised to see Morzan do the same. Gazing at him intently, Brom kept back-pedaling until he was satisfied he was far enough away, he could rest without Morzan closing the distance and killing him before he was prepared to go back into the fray. Brom threw his blue Rider sword into the ground where it lay quivering in the soft Elven grass. Only a few years earlier, Brom had been playing with a young Elven girl here... _well not just an Elven girl, it was the Elven princess herself! _Brom realized, scolding himself. He could still remember when news had reached the Elven kingdom of Evendar's death, the girl's heart had been shattered. She had run away from home, and Brom, being the only able Rider, was tasked on finding her. He had finally reached her while she was clambering out of Du Weldenvarden. Smiling at her courage, he thought he would wait, unseen, and see what the brave young elf would do next, until a band of Imperial troops stormed past on patrol. Spying the Elven girl, they ran towards her with her weapons drawn. Springing foward, Brom had rushed the soldiers, rescuing the awed princess who thanked him profusely. Since then, he had been one of her only friends besides the Elven boy she adored so much. Drawn from his thoughts by a threating roar, he saw two dragons plummeting for the Earth. Looking up, Brom noticed the night sky starting to show through; the sun had only just set. _We have been fighting for four hours straight? _Brom thought.

_And you have been completely ignoring me you old fool! _Shouted Saphira, breaking through Brom's mental defences as she landed with a hard thump beside her Rider, showing him with dragon blood. _I blocked you out so you wouldn't need to feel my pain, but you have remained closed this whole time_. She commented, her scaly head turning to face her beloved Rider.

The dragoness was a sorry sight to see; the membrane on her wings had been torn in many places, her sides and belly were raked with claw marks, and her tail was bleeding freely, the final spike having been bitten clean off. Morzan's dragon,however, was in even worse shape. He sustained an almost fatal injury to his back, he had no left claw left, and his head was scortched, bruised and clawed at, his left eye having been ruptured and it was spewing hot dragon blood on the ground, fizzling and steaming where it dropped. The cut on the unnamed dragon was scortched with fire marks, where Saphira had painfully roasted his exposed flesh. Both Riders healed all the serious injuries on their mounts, preparing to go back to fighting after their momentary truce.

"It's over old friend; you have lost", shouted Morzan. Brom felt seeds of doubt creeping into his mind. _He speaks the truth. Saphira I have nothing left. My magical energy is depleted, and I doubt I can swing with enough force to deliver a killing blow._

_Old man; you and I have been through a lot together, the good times and the bad. This is only one of those bad times. We always pull through, and I have no plans stopping here. Ask the __elves for energy._

Saphira turned one of her large eyes on him quizzically, and Brom thought to himself about the option of borrowing more energy from the elves, obviously surrounding the battleground, gripping their weapons grimly. _For a race which is so peaceful, they certainly do have a way of holding their own in battle. _Redirecting his thoughts to Saphira, Brom pondered her idea.

_Foolish old one! _Saphira exclaimed with a snort. _You have been given the opportunity to crush the enemy, but you don't use it! Why is this decision so hard for you, Brom?_

_Because, my beautiful dragoness, if we use the energy from the elves, we will be no better than Galbatorix with his Eldunarí._

Saphira chuckled as only a dragon could; it was a low throaty sound which sounded almost like a mix between a cough and a wheeze, but it had something strangely fearsome mixed in. _Except for the fact that we are fighting on the side of the __majority of the people in Alagaesia against the most cruel tyrant the world has ever seen, and the fact the elves are willing to give the energy while the Hearts of Hearts are not._

_Right once again, I see._

_I'm always right, especially when comparing my reasoning to that of a blind old fool! _Saphira fluttered her wings, causing the restless nameless dragon across the field to perk up and prepare to fight once more.

_Come off that Saphira, _Brom growled as he mentally contacted the nearest elves and felt their warming energies fueling his aching form. _Perhaps I am getting too old for this_, Brom voiced, completely unaware he had not blocked his dragoness from his mind.

Laughter resounded off the stomach lining of his old friend as she took to the skies, the red dragon following in close pursuit. At least she and Brom had lifted each others spirits before they returned to fighting their mortal enemies. The truce obviously over to all parties on the field, the two warriors still left drew their swords from where they lay stuck in Du Weldenvarden's dense soil.

Brom was the first to attack, moving quickly to lash out at Morzan's slightly exposed right side while executing a roundhouse kick with his left foot, and reversing the blade to the leftside of Morzan's body, making him draw even more energy to dodge all three strikes almost simultaneously. Remaining on the offense, Brom raised his sword and thrust it straight out towards Morzan's left side, drawing a trickle of blood as Morzan spun to evade the bulk of the deadly weapon. Twisting around to once again face his enemy, Brom faked a swing and instead lashed out with his foot, catching Morzan in the gut while his left hand caught him on the jaw. Morzan widthdrew under the renewed furiocity of Brom's blows, falling backwards onto his elbows, his side slightly stained by his wounds.

"Ah, Brom, I see the presence of the elves wasn't only for protection, it was for strength. Now they have made it near impossible to best you. It's okay Brom, Galbatorix would have done the same for me had I embarked on this adventure willingly."

"This is different Morzan, you know it." Brom paused, thinking to compose his sentence while the tip of his blade came to rest on Morzan's heaving chest, "If you weren't compelled by Galbatorix's spells and courupted by his evils, you would want to die Morzan. You don't understand. I know you. I knew you were going to kill yourself after you left Selena and I happy!" Brom's face twisted angrily, "And you killed her!"

"Well I guess I won't be bringing you back to our good king, will I," Morzan spat. "I guess I'll do the next best thing!", his voice trailing off to mirror what Brom thought Galbatorix would sound like.

Raising his hand, Morzan looked up to point at the dragons circling in the sky, using such complex acrobatic moves they were dizzying even their Riders. The agility and intelligence of the of the two beasts mesmerized Brom, and their power was mind boggling. Morzan's eyes changed color, not into the usual deep red hue of his dragon, but to the black hue of darkness as a great black bolt of pure energy formed from the palm of his hand, angling up toward Brom's beautiful dragoness. Brom saw it before he felt it happen. Gazing angrilly at Morzan, Brom's eyes glazed over in pain. The tremendous shock wave from the impact of Morzan's spell jarred him off his feet as he screamed for his dragon. Brom impacted the ground with his back, no wards lasted to soften the blow. He didn't feel the searing pain as he fractured every vertebrae in his back with a sickening crunch, all he could feel was the lessening pain of his dragoness as she passed into the void, her limp body rapidly approaching the ground. Looking down at where Morzan had been, his skeleton was all that remained, Brom's sword digging into the ground where his heart had been seconds ago. He had used up all his energy and was incinerated to a crisp for his deeds. In a matter of seconds, Brom's heart had welled up with more sorrow than could be accounted for in words. He felt as if half of him had vanished into thin air, leaving behind an immeasurable gap. Struggling to maintain control of himself and not fly off and die trying to kill Galbatorix, Brom was brought to his knees, the elves once concealed in the brush surrounding the field coming out to join the broken Rider. Using whatever magical energy they had left from the battle, they stopped the descent of Saphira and Morzan's unnamed dragon, healing Saphira's body's wounds and trying to bring her back to life. Brom thought of the small baby boy he had left behind without telling anyone, concealed by an invisibility spell which was fueled by one of his most trusted compatriots, Vanir.

Brom was left alone in a circle of hundreds of elves, all weeping for the loss of a magnificent dragon who had helped them so much, desperately trying to bring her back to life. They tried everything, but Brom knew it was futile. Galbatorix had taken control of his nameslave at the last moment, forcing him to end his own life by taking the last of his energy and transforming it into a dark incantation that also took Saphira's. Galbatorix's mark had been left; a big black scar was engraved into Saphira's side, unaffected by any magic, cast onto the body for the rest of time. Brom clutched at the fleeting strands of Saphira's consciousness to no avail, they slipped through the tendrils of his mind no matter how tightly he wound them, just like water slipping through closed fingers. Finally allowing Saphira to succumb to the void, Brom only felt Saphira's final feelings: regret and love.

Brom felt another presence entering his mind, bearing a gold aura, as a man and dragon, both encased in gleaming, golden armor, emerged from the trees, soaring silently through the skies. Slipping into Brom's unguarded mind, they both sent comforting thoughts to the Rider who had now fallen to lie facedown in the dirt, the other elves giving him a wide breadth, but still managing to completely encase him in their sorrow. The hate which built in Brom's mind was immense, but it was sedated with the help of his fellow Riders. Brom felt a hand on his shoulder. Getting up and shaking off, the hand gently led him to the back of the golden dragon, craning his neck as he picked the blue dragon's body up off the ground, the corpse of her red nemesis left to the hoard of angry elves.

The golden beast shifted under Brom as he sat in the saddle, it's own thin Rider sliding in after him as the dragon took off. The feeling of flying once again and knowing it would never again be upon the back of his beautiful partner of mind crushed Brom, sending tears cascading down his cheeks in an endless waterfall of emotion. The Golden Rider held him close, a hug of comradery, yet filled with such emotion it stifled the pain feeling stemming from deep inside Brom's heart.

Brom would regret his actions for years to come. He had been joking with his dragon, not minutes before her end, and the last words he had said to her were not ones of bravery, courage and love to show his affection for her, they were a joke. Was that what she was to him? A joke?

Brom's mind once again was flooded with sadness in remembrance of all the conversations he had had with his dragon, remembering how he would never hear her beautiful voice again caused the ducts in his eyes to once again open to the world, balling his eyes out over his lost dragon. He would never again hear her disdainful comments at his crude jokes, or her witty remarks, her unique sarcasm, even just her thoughts or her dreams while she slept peacefully through the night. He would never have her to get him out of sticky situations, or her intuition about what to say to women. That thought brought a sad smile to his face, his mouth curved upward at the tips, covered under his beard for only himself to see.

Saphira would be missed dearly, and Brom would prove to be a changed man. No more would he make snide remarks or joke about battle. Her death along with the death of his love would create a rock solid exterior to a man who had been compassionate and caring. The best part of his life had just been ripped away, carried into the void with the deaths of his loved ones, leaving him lonely to wander the land himself, finding his own way without his closest companions to guide him. Brom doubted he would ever find a partner as good for himself as Selena; he could not love another woman, just as he would never be able to fill the emptiness his dragon left when she departed from his soul. The world was a blur, and the once brave and powerful Brom was walking through it blindly, his vision clouded by the tears of sadness from the deaths of the beings he held most dear to his heart.

Someday, Brom would come to wonder why Galbatorix had left him alive and only taken his dragon, and every time, he came to the conclusion that Galbatorix didn't find a broken Rider without his partner of mind to be any threat. Brom would curse Galbatorix's name until the end of days, his only reason for living, his two children, one of whom lay in a crib, invisible in his own residence, while the other lay somewhere Brom didn't know, journeying from another world, traveling through time, as his dreams carried him far and wide across the land of Alagaesia...

Ahahahaha... you didn't actually think I would start something else after the 6k word chapter did ya? I feel so cruel. Promise to update soon if you promise to review lots! Reviews make updates faster!


	7. Tines of Power

Hi readers. 6k chapter? yup

End of the past, start of the present! Please review. Not reviewing is lame. I need more and has been the only solid reviewer... thanks and I apologize i haven't gotten around to reading more of your story. Life happened. :)

Update: Pie is back going through chapters 5 through this one. Thanks Pie. And Llama's still helping a bunch. G-chat is a blast people. Use it!

Clarification... yes Eragon remembers how to speak.

IN YOUR REVIEW TELL ME WHETHER YOU WANT TO HEAR ABOUT ARYA OR MORE ABOUT ERAGON!

Eragon

Eragon awoke in a lavish bed, savoring the feel of warmth softness. He was exhausted. The youth laid in the bed drifting in and out of the much-needed sleep. Eragon groaned, as the sleep started to evade him. As Eragon wrestled with his restless mind, a knock sounded at the door.

The muscles in Eragon's body protested as he quickly got up. His back felt on fire and a big, blotchy bruise was apparent on his arm. As the youth got up, he noticed that he was wearing a soft tunic and a pair of felt pants which fluttered about as he walked. As Eragon headed towards the door, he took a look around his ostentatious quarters. Eragon sighed. He knew this room was made for him, yet it didn't feel like home.

Opening the door, Eragon was surprised to see a man dressed entirely in black. The man was short for an adult, but still taller than Eragon by quite a few inches. The man wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight of Eragon. The youth frowned, suddenly self-conscious.

The heavily garbed man moved back into his dignified position, delivering his message while staring straight through Eragon. Something about the man made Eragon's skin crawl, but the youth shrugged off the feeling.

"Apparently, you're new around here", the square-jawed man's nose twitched as he spoke, setting Eragon on edge. He continued in a scornful voice, "I have no idea what the King would want with a young lad like you." The man let out a bored sigh. "You've been summoned to his majesty's throne room. Meet him there for dinner tonight. And don't be late."

"Thank you," Eragon said, almost in a daze. Shutting the door, the youth glanced out of his window. The sun was starting to set, bathing the landscape in bright hues of red and orange. Eragon figured that he had some time before he had to join the king for dinner. He looked down at his attire. _Presentable enough._ He felt clean and had no desire to bathe.

Eragon turned around and opened the door again, he glanced both ways and decided to turn left and get a better feel of the place.

Eragon continued walking down the hallway, turning down random corridors. Wooden doors identical to Eragon's appeared sporadically on the dark gray walls, identified only by a simple crest burned into the wood next to the iron handle.

The corridors were quite busy. Servants, marked by a simple gray and brown uniform that almost blended in with the walls, ran back and forth. Some carried steaming plates of food that made Eragon's stomach grumble.

Messengers shuffled across the red carpet quickly with their heads down. Their oversized cream tunics fluttered as they weaved through the stream of people. Others were dressed in a more regal wear: dark purple, red, blue and greens with blindly white accents. They held their frame stiffly straight and nose up in the air as if everything not in their social class disgusted them. Eragon glanced down at his clothes again and noticed his tunic was a deep azure color, similar to the nobles. _Curious._

As Eragon continued his escapade through the castle, nervous whispers followed him. The servants were especially uncomfortable and tried to stay as far away from him. Some even quickly changed direction just to avoid his path.

Finally the youth reached the end of a hallway, marked only by a door to the left, and a big window in front of him. Eragon crouched down and took note of the crest that marked this door. It depicted a great stag in a forest. The eyes of the animal drew in Eragon and curious, he gently rapped on door.

The timbered wood flew open and connected squarely with Eragon's noise. A loud crack resounded through the corridor, causing some heads to turn, but they all quickly looked away. Eragon uttered a cry of pain and stumbled back a few paces, dazed.

Realizing he had made a mistake, Eragon fled, one hand clutching his bleeding and broken nose, and the other flailing about as he sped down the hallway. Eragon was still looking back at the man who was shouting and waving his fist at him, when he collided with the other end of the corridor.

With a hiss of pain, Eragon slid down the wall. _That end of the hallway came up much quicker than expected, _Eragon thought. His shoulder felt dislocated, probably even broken. _Faster than expected too_. The youth hastily got to his feet and stumbled back in the general location of his room.

Blood flowed freely out of his nose and his right arm fell limp to his side. As Eragon stumbled through the hallway, he gave no notice to the astounded gazes of the people he left in his wake, or the small rectangle vaguely resembling the nobleman he had escaped only seconds ago.

Eragon continued to walk aimlessly until he came to a stop in front of a large set of cast iron doors. There was a giant crest etched into the middle of the doors: a snarling dragon stood in front of three slashes of a beast's claws. Thirteen guards stood at attention in front of the doors, each with the identical crest imprinted on their polished breastplates. Something about the doors made Eragon want to run away, but before he could move away, one of the guards stepped out of the line with his hand on the hilt of his weapon.

"You impertinent, callow child! How dare you wander around the royal wing, disturbing the King and bleeding on his carpet. Whatever your frivolous request, I, nor his majesty, will hear a word of it." Angry eyes glared at Eragon through the thin slit his helmet.

Eragon stuttered, unprepared at the guard's outburst. "I-I was summoned to meet with the King."

The guard squinted his eyes, looking for signs of deception. "Very well," the guard said. Turning to the remaining line of the guards his gestured for the doors be opened. The men complied; heaving open the heavy, black riveted doors. The crest split down the middle as the doors parted open.

Eragon walked through. What he saw left him speechless. Tapestries and paintings lined the stone walls. Torches burned brightly, illuminating the cavernous room. A giant, rectangular mahogany table sat in the middle of the room, flanked by an unseemly amount of plush chairs made from the same wood as the table.

A figure at the other end of the table gestured towards Eragon. "Sit," the figure demanded, motioning to a seat next to him. His voice echoed throughout the room. "You are late."

Eragon hastily made his way quickly to the seat, all the while apologizing, explaining that he had gotten lost on his way.

Amused, the man removed his hood to reveal a kind yet hard face. There was a deep scratch across the man's eyelid and a meticulously trimmed black beard lined the man's square jaw.

"My apologies your highness", Eragon said again as he approached the King.

Completely disregarding what Eragon had said, the King's eyes roved up and down, looking at Eragon from head to toe. The intensity of his gaze made Eragon shiver. The king touched his broken shoulder and uttered a few words. His shoulder and nose both popped back into place with a sicken noise. Fire exploded in both places and Eragon resisted the need to yelp. In a few moments, the pain vanished, and Eragon traced the lines of his face, and shoulder, finding his nose and shoulder completely mended. He reached toward the bruise mark on his upper arm, bracing himself for the pain as he pushed his skin inward slightly. Surprisingly, Eragon met no such advisory. All of his pains had been cured.

"Well now that the healing is over with, let us begin." Eragon perfunctorily sat down in the chair, his form sinking into the chair as he relaxed. Servants came and served the pair as they talked about what happened to Eragon. It was an intriguing conversation. The King seemed to know nothing about where he had come from or what happened, and Eragon didn't remember anything past his pilgrimage on the back of the dark abomination.

Galbatorix

*****BOOKMARK*****

Unable to unravel anything about Eragon's past, Eragon consented for Galbatorix to look through his mind for anything useful. Of course Galbatorix wanted all the you boy's secrets to unlock his true name like he did to so many others, but he was surprised when he met hard wall of resistance. "Eragon. Lower your barriers please. I don't know when you learned how to defend your mind, but I don't want to force my way in."

"My apologies my King. I didn't realize what I was doing. My vision immediately went black when I felt something tickle my head".

_Ah, so he is quite the young magician. Although I'm unsure as to whether I, on my own, would be able to bring his barriers down. I don't think so._

_Of course you can Galbatorix, _Shruikan chimed in, his deep crisp voice taking Galbatorix by surprise. _After all, you conquered a dragon on your own. Now I am nothing more than a domesticated animal. I think a horse who tows plows should have more honor than me._

_Yes of course Shruikan. You are the lowest of the low, only saved from the fury of the dragons because you were the one who didn't have a choice. You are only here because others pity you, _Galbatorix added viciously.

Shruikan, obviously hurt, flew off to circle around the city a few times, blowing smoke from his nostrils and terrorising the townspeople. He had been forced to do horrible things by Galbatorix, and he would never forgive his Rider. During the period of his breaking, he had eaten human and dragon more than once. He had been forced to eat his own kind! Just the memories still gave him shivers and brought up pain from the deepest recesses of the ancient dragon's mind.

_Ah yes. We should break this new blood before we begin our work, _commented Galbatorix, still residing in Shruikan's mind.

_For starters, we don't know he is the dragon Rider yet, so there could be no reason to subject him to such horrors. Plus, Eragon is a little boy, and I can tell you quite like him; why must you break all of your powerful subjects? _Shruikan asked ignorantly.

_Remember Morzan? _Galbatorix said in a sorrowful tone. _I don't want another Morzan. Perhaps I could wait until he was older or he became the Rider though._

_Yes. I think it would be very unjust to torture someone without knowing if it was even needed. Have you ever thought of just leaving your subjects be. Maybe they would be more agreeable with you. _Shruikan pondered, sharing his thoughts with is master.

Galbatorix suddenly realized what he was doing. He was becoming soft. Never had he considered not torturing because he liked someone. Morzan was the last one Galbatorix trusted, and he had vowed not to place that kind of trust in a person ever again. _No! I will torture the boy regardless. It will be great fun won't it? We haven't had that kind of fun in quite a while. I believe Oromis was the last to be tortured, but sadly he didn't break before he escaped from the clutches of Kilandí. We could have used his knowledge to train the next Rider. Yes I will break the boy and he will serve me willingly in the end. I will not be the one to torture the boy, I will have Malak do it. Malak will break the boy, and then I will take him and help him recover, earning his respect for me Perhaps in the end I will swoop in and kill Malak, looking like a hero to the boy. That man has been a pain in my side for too long hasn't he?_

_You are absolutely sick! _With a snort, Shruikan landed on the palace roof, tearing off some of the shingles and shaking the palace to the core. Galbatorix fell, landing in a sitting position, giving his dragon the mental equivalent of a snarl.

_I will have the egg hatch for him, Malak will kidnap him as a Varden operative, and then I will rescue him to gain his respect. Perfect plan, _Galbatorix thought to himself, feeling accomplished.

Smiling, Galbatorix was dragged back to real time by a poking at his shoulder. A boy with dirty blonde hair and comforting brown eyes was standing over him. His eyes were wide with shock and panic.

"My King, are you feeling ok?" The boy said, his voice so compassionate and caring that it brought shivers to Galbatorix. It had been so long since someone had been genuinely worried about him. _Nonsense! _Galbatorix thought to himself. He must be broken; it must be done.

_First, the hatching of the egg. Second, Malak. Third, he will become the dragon Rider I hoped Morzan would become. I will transform him into a killing machine. He will have no morals and follow my orders to the letter, but he will also keep me company. _Galbatorix secretly learned for someone to talk to. His dragon had completely gone against him and didn't talk unless it was to hinder Galbatorix's own abilities or ruin his plans. The guards and nobles were to afraid to talk to the King, and the people in the lower part of Urû'baen despised the King. _Now I will have someone to keep me company while I keep the world in line, _thought Galbatorix fondly.

"Please excuse me for a brief moment Eragon. I must get some things for you. Wait for me to return."

Eragon

_I wonder what types of gift the King has in mind,_ Eragon thought, secretly hoping he would get to wield a sword like all the other men he had seen. In the short time he actually remembered, Eragon had seen every single man, except for the messenger, with a sword strapped to their waste. _Maybe I will be able to fight in battles and become a hero for Galbatorix, vanquishing his enemies until I have brought peace to the warring land. _

Truthfully, a land where every man wore a sword, was a sad sight to behold. Alagaesia was being torn apart by civil war, its beautiful cities had been reduced to no more than dust and derbies. Even the most beautiful Elven city's beauty had been masked by filth and grime, but most importantly darkness. It used to be a city of gold, the pride and glory of the land, but now everything was covered in a layer of black. Houses which would have been priceless were now covered in an unmovable black soot. The gold had been corroded all the way through until there was nothing left of the golden houses but houses made from black rocks. Even the tallest spire of Illeria was now covered with a fine layer, only the bright point at the top still shown out, still golden, almost waiting for the return of the Elves to the city of darkness and rid it of the corruption. The city was being suffocated by the corrosion, crying out to onlookers, but crying out in vain. No man had enough power to beat the Dark King. All those who did feared becoming a tyrant like Galbatorix and had willingly given their lives, and there were still others who had been tricked, and even more who joined the Dark King out of their lust for power, only to find their deaths in the years which followed. None but Galbatorix got the power he promised his thirteen forsworn. None but Galbatorix had lived to see the day where the outlaw dragon Riders ruled the whole land of Alagaesia, bringing it peace under one powerful rule. Of course there were the kingdoms of the Dwarves and Elves who were opposed to his rule, but they had gone into hiding long ago. But then again, Galbatorix knew there was no chance at a rebellion for either race because they couldn't coordinate any strikes as the humans were in their way. Yes, Galbatorix's spies breached both the Dwarves and Elves, not matter how powerful and ancient their races, both had been powerless to stop his infiltration, and they weren't nearly powerful to stand alone against his kingdom.

After a few minutes of waiting Galbatorix finally returned, sweeping into the throne room from a door Eragon had not notice upon his entrance. Black cape billowing, Galbatorix cut a very sinister figure, but it wasn't the darkness which seemed to surround the King which captured Eragon's attention, it was the green and blue stones he held in his hands. They were large in volume and must have taken enormous effort for a man of Galbatorix's age to carry, one in each arm. Realizing this, Eragon made a move to take the eggs from the Dark King, but the King refused to let him touch the precious stones. Slightly puzzled, Eragon wondered why stones, even though they were dazzling, could be so valuable to a King. The green one was the first to receive Eragon's attention, the marble patterns catching his eye as different shades of green wound their way around the egg, reminding Eragon of the forests he had flown over during his pilgrimage to Urû'baen.

"They are beautiful, are they not?" Asked Galbatorix.

Unsure as to what he should stay about the stones which would accurately capture the essence of their beauty, Eragon quickly stammered off, "Yes my King", before his eyes were once again roving up and down across the green egg, entranced by its beauty. Suddenly, there was a shift in the wind sweeping through the windows, the candles spluttering to shine on the blue egg which was held in Galbatorix's other hand.

"You see," began Galbatorix, "I had three of these precious commodities before one was stolen from me. They are dragon eggs and I need the last of these back. It is a blood red color, and it is currently being ferried back and forth among my enemies. They cannot have it or all my power will be lost...

Eragon stared deeply at the blue egg, getting the feeling like he remembered it from somewhere, but he didn't know for sure. The sparkle of the egg drew him in, urging him to touch it. Knowing he could not oblige, Eragon settled for staring at its beauty intently. When he looked at the blue egg, it sent shivers running down his back; he felt the egg was almost a reflection of himself; his very essence. The egg's brilliant blue color was the most beautiful color he had ever seen. Unlike the green egg, the blue egg was a brilliant solid blue. There were no discolorations or mixtures. It was perfect. The moment he set eyes on it, Eragon knew the egg was his. He would get it no matter what the cost; he felt bound to the egg in a way he had never felt before. Eragon's heart threatened to leap out of his chest as his yearning for the egg grew until it encompassed his whole being; he could feel his pulse elevating to dangerous levels as he tried to tear his gaze from the wonder before him.

"I can see you are very attached to the blue egg," Galbatorix commented, his anticipation showing through his usual facade of anger.

"May I, my lord?" Eragon managed to get out, his eyes still glued on the egg to which he felt so inclined, and his hand slowly extending, trembling as it bridged the gap between himself and the egg.

"I remember my first experience with a dragon egg..." Galbatorix's voice trailed off dreamily as his face became kind as opposed to the twisted, aged expression he usually wore. After what seemed like an eternity to Eragon, Galbatorix finally came back to his senses, his normal features returning. His hand moved the egg toward Eragon as Eragon's hand gravitated toward the divine form, stopping just before it reached its destination, pausing to savor the moment.

Eragon's hand quickly came to rest on the egg, brushing it lightly with his fingertips. The previously cold surface, heating as if the contents of the egg were trying to melt its way through the thick shell which had been protecting it for an eternity, since it had been laid thousands of years ago. The blue sheen of the egg seemed to brighten at his touch, sparkling with life as veins rippled across the surface. Galbatorix quickly handed the egg to Eragon, making no attempt to hide his anticipation; the Dark King's hands were red and covered in blisters and sores from holding onto the boiling surface. At first, Eragon thought the process was going to be slow, but as soon as the egg was in his hands, there was a large clap of thunder as the shell split in half, a blue dragoness fluttering to the ground, landing in a heap at Eragon's feet. Eragon saw Galbatorix intake a quick breath before choking on his spittle as the dragon chirped at him, shying away from him and coming to stand behind Eragon, unfurling its wings as to look more menacing. It growled angrily, its teeth bared at the King as it cowered in fear.

Eragon didn't quite know what was supposed to happen at this point, but his instinct told him to comfort the dragon. Bending down, Eragon stretched his hand out, touching the miniature dragon on the snout. An all encompassing pain engulfed Eragon as fear gripped him. He felt the dragon in his consciousness; he felt its feelings, its fear, his hunger, its desire, and most of all, its love for its new Rider. All these new sensations hurt; not because they were meant to hurt him, but they mixed with Eragon's own feelings in a new way which stung Eragon, almost as if a new layer of skin had just been revealed to the cold breeze after the old layer had peeled off.

_Rider Eragon; yes that would do, _thought the child, still kneeling down next to his dragon who was curled up, rubbing its leathery scales against his leg affectionately. Noting the Black King was still standing in front of him, watching him intently, Eragon apologized for his inherent rudeness. He had completely ignored the King, for a whole 15 minutes, but the man was content to stand there. _I suppose he is remembering when this happened to him. Of course his black dragon was young once, _Eragon explained to his new companion. Incapable of speech at the moment, the dragon sent back its love as a response, acknowledging Eragon had communicated with it, but also masking its confusion as its pride took a blow from not understanding what its partner meant.

"It is most definitely understandable young Eragon. Your dragon is the last dragoness in Alagaesia, and she will play a pivotal role in the continuation of her race."

_So that's why Galbatorix was so content when the blue dragon egg caught my attention; he wants to repopulate the dragon race by using you! _

Galbatorix continued, "I suppose you think this cruel and barbaric, but I must remind you the dragons are the most proud and powerful race in Alagaesia, their fate being tied to the fate of the land. I would like this land to prosper, so most obviously, the dragons must be reborn. Together, you and I, will create a new order of dragon riders. I'm sure your dragon will support our ambitions. She will not be forced to do anything against her will as long as you remain on your current path. You will remain loyal to me. I ensure you she will want to continue the dragons as much as you or I, and when the time is right, we will be gifted with a new batch of dragon eggs."

"My lord", Eragon said with a tone of malice, "I will be loyal to you because you are the ruler of this land, and the only one who I know well enough to trust you with my life. You have brought peace to the world, and I respect you and will remain your humble servant so as to maintain the peace. However, I will not stand for threats against my dragon!"

The Black King was taken aback by the force of Eragon's comments, and how daring he had suddenly become with the birth of the dragon.

"By no means does being a Dragon Rider allow you to disrespect your King in such a way", Galbatorix said knowingly, trying to be sympathetic and save face without losing control. "I also agree with you, my statement was false. I meant that there are others in the land who will want to control you and your dragon to create the dragon race for their own benefit. I wish to return the dragon riders for the benefit of the land. I did not say it as a threat, more as a warning. There are people who would force another dragon on yours, the people who stole my red egg, the people called the Varden. As long as you remain with me, I will protect you; if you run off along your own path, I cannot be as sure of your safety. This is also why we must retake what is rightfully mine! We don't want a dragon to be enslaved by those barbaric fugitives and we especially don't want your dragon to be taken into their control. They have already caused enough harm to the peaceful state of the empire I have worked so hard to build." Galbatorix trailed off, sadness creeping into his voice. Eragon was shocked to see the most powerful man to ever step foot in Alagaesia being bested by his sorrow for his crumbling empire.

"I will remain loyal to you, my King, because your purpose is to keep the peace." Eragon was bemused by the seriousness of his words. "I want nothing other than to crush these rebels and once again reinstate your power over the people, allowing us all to live in harmony once again. Your wish is my command."

"Thank you Eragon, you have no idea how much this means to me", sobbed Galbatorix, knowing full well he would be having the young rider tortured the next morning. "For tonight, we should retire, it is getting late. We will begin your training tomorrow morning. Make sure to talk to your dragon using images to teach her words. Share your memories and convey your thoughts and feelings. When she is finally able to speak, you will give her a name."

Galbatorix

_You feel guilty about torturing the boy and his dragon Galbatorix, _came the voice inside his head, its deep throaty tones allowing to be recognized as his dragon.

Galbatorix turned around reeling, until he realized his dragon wasn't behind him. _If I ever want your opinion, I will ask, _he remarked cooly.

_You are afraid Galbatorix. Your fear is blinding you, and your guilt overcoming you. I usually cannot feel what you are thinking because of the limits you put on our bond, but tonight is different. You are being defeated by an enemy you cannot fight; take the boy under your wing and raise him properly, then you don't need to feel such guilt about causing a fellow rider so much pain and suffering. _Remarked his dragon smugly.

_I will break him. If I raise him myself, he will learn too much about me and he could turn. We must break him and mold him into a weapon for my cause before his usage. He will not become Morzan. _The controlling tone in Galbatorix's voice was gone, replaced by one of confusion.

_Do as you please, _said Shruikan plainly as he withdrew from his rider's head.

_Maybe I am becoming weak. I cannot stand the sight of someone so young being broken. I must stand it. The pain will make me stronger, _he decided.

Eragon had left for his quarters long ago, but Galbatorix remained in his throne room. Motioning to the servant standing in the darkness next to the huge iron doors which closed off the throne room, Galbatorix quickly decided his course of action was the proper one to take.

Servant

"Find the Butcher", Galbatorix explained to the young servant standing before him. "Tell him to start the mission. I have readied one of the rooms in Morzan's palace myself for the torture of the child."

The servant quickly sped off, starting to dash into the corridor before Galbatorix stopped him. He didn't know which one was worse, talking to the King, or talking to the King's most experienced torturer, trained to cause the most pain possible without losing his victims.

"I didn't dismiss you boy! How dare you turn your back to the King!" Galbatorix roared.

"My apologies, my King. I meant no disrespect.", said the servant, getting down on his knees to kneel before Galbatorix, but also to pray to the gods Galbatorix would not end his life. He was thankful when Galbatorix once again opened his mouth to speak, using words of the regular language instead of the magical one.

"Tell the Butcher his target is Eragon, the dragon rider you saw earlier." At this, the servant was stunned. The King's intention was to torture the dragon rider? He was but a mere child! Disgusted, the servant opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it and nodded. "Eragon is staying in the guest's quarters on the fifth floor. Tell him to make sure Eragon is out cold when he is taken, and make sure nobody sees him and becomes suspicious. We need the people to believe the ploy as well. The Butcher is supposed to play the agent of the Varden, trying to make Eragon speak his true name. The Butcher is to tell Eragon the consequences of his true name and he will not accept the fact Eragon doesn't know his true name until Eragon is broken. The Butcher is not to torture or touch the dragon in any way. The Butcher will use you to contact me when Eragon breaks. That is when the real fun will begin!"

Galbatorix's gleefulness was reassuring and surprising to himself. _Perhaps I am not softening after all. _

The wicked King laughed at the look of shock on the messenger's face as he promptly sped off, eager to be free of the King's presence.

The messenger continued to run until he reached the dungeons, buried underneath all the floors of the castle. It was partially below ground level, allowing little air to slip in through the bars of the cells, as well as the occasional hour of sunlight. The cells were designed to give prisoners false hope because they could see the outside, but then take it away as they were taken to the interrogation room for torturing. The air inside the dungeons of Urû'baen was stale and smelled of iron as well as rotting flesh. The crack of whips could be heard coming from down the hallway, the screams never failing to follow. The leather straps only added to the disgusting smells from the dungeons, the messenger noticed as he passed more decaying but yet living forms, writhing in their cells. Disgusted, the messenger pushed past, eventually coming to the main interrogation room which contained two figures. One of which, was holding a devilish looking knife, smiling as screams of agony came from the other figure. The torturer, obviously the Butcher, had only half a face, the other half had been skinned off during a battle, one of his eyes missing, the gaping hole left open to the air.

The Butcher had been the handsome son of an Urû'baen noble who ventured into battle, losing half of his face to a sword. His face was his pride and glory, gaining him numerous female admirers. When the butcher had finally caught up to the man who ruined his image, he captured him, bringing him back to camp as a prisoner of war. After the magician on duty healed the wound on his face, the Butcher went to "visit" his prisoner, taking with him only a small carving knife. The prisoner was bound to a table next to the campfire, surrounded by the rest of the camp and all its inhabitants. Slowly, the butcher drew his carving knife, the elaborate design of the handle outlined by the darkness, the blade gleaming in the light of the fire.

His face took on a look of a perverted excitement at the task before him; he was all too pleased with the idea of revenge. He grinned wickedly as he looked down at his prisoner, savoring the moment as he brought the cruelly curved knife down, creating a small incision in the man's right bicep. The soldier squeezed his eyes shut and bravely uttered no noise, biting down hard on his lip, beads of crimson blood forming as his skin broke under his teeth. Again the prisoner was cut, though this time on his right thigh, just above the knee, and this a deeper, longer cut. He screamed, unable to hold back the cry of agony as the knife easily sliced through his skin and muscle, leaving a wake of blood as a ship does water. The Butcher relished the man's pain as beads of the prisoner's blood mixed with perspiration. Having only one eye, the Butcher's depth perception was thrown off, creating deeper incisions then intended, much to the enjoyment of onlookers. The Butcher continued to cut into the man, each swipe of the blade drawing more blood and more screams than the last. Through his anger, the Butcher developed a sick connection with magic. He could feel the life of his victims, urging their minds to keep them conscious as he dished out pain enough for anyone else to become unconscious. His sick connection with his victims, allowing him to torture them beyond normal limits. Legends has it, the Butcher performed a thousand more cuts on the poor soldier before he died from blood loss. The Butcher created a masterpiece out of the man, tattooing his body with red blood, the intricate designs rivaling those of the elves.

When Galbatorix learned of the Butcher's deeds, he was intrigued, inviting the man to dine with him, and shortly afterward, appointing him the King's personal torturer. All semblance of his former life lost, no longer was the man who was lusted after by numerous women, he was all alone, no family, and most of his friends were killed in battle. He quickly became so consumed with his losses, that his mind grew corrupted, his thoughts and emotions twisted into a terrible rope of darkness.

"I see you have a message for me, young man", the Butcher said in a gruff voice. He was extremely intimidating, and suddenly the messenger yearned to go back to Galbatorix's throne room. At least the King didn't usually kill without reason.

"Yes. The King wishes for you to start your mission at daybreak. You are to capture Eragon and bring him to Morzan's castle. There has been a torture room set up in the castle. You are to take the rider out unseen and the dragon will remain. You will torture the Rider for his true name even though he doesn't know it, and you will contact Galbatorix when he is broken. You will be acting as a Varden agent who kidnaps the boy from the inside." The messenger trembled as the large man steadily approached, dreading the thought of being with the butcher a minute more,

The messenger's dark eyes darted about the room nervously, wanting to focus on anything but the imposing figure before him; his eyes came to a sudden halt when he saw his best friend, his blood spattered all over the floor, a rusty pin still protruding from the Butcher's closed fist. It was then that the messenger made the connection. There were millions of tiny droplets of blood littering his best friend's body, each created by a prick from the tiny pin, until his entire form was covered in crimson. The victim's eyes had glazed because of his agony, yearning for the release of unconsciousness or even death.

By then, the Butcher had closed the distance between the messenger and himself, his hot breath baking the messenger's face, the smell making his nose wrinkle in disgust.

"What did Ovid do to deserve this?", the boy asked innocently.

Ignoring the previous comment, the Butcher rasped, "You delivered your message well."

Still curious as to what his friend did to suffer this horrific fate, the messenger asked, "Did he commit treason?"

The Butcher was not a man known for his winning smile any longer, but the corners of his lips twitched upward. "No, your friend delivered his message well."

All color drained from the messenger's face as the needle from the Butcher's hand flashed across his jugular vein, creating the most precise of incisions.

With that, the Butcher tied the messenger up, a steady stream of blood cascading down from his neck, quickly soaking his shirt blood red as his lifeblood gradually wasted away, dripping down his form to pool at his feet.

As the Butcher sauntered away, laughing at his newest victim, the messenger felt like a sand timer; it was only a matter of time before he died of blood loss, his end was drawing nearer with each drop of blood that fell to the dirty floor. His last thoughts before his death were of the young boy with blond hair and piercing blue eyes, completely unaware he would experience a nightmare in the morning from which he would never wake up.


	8. Regrets

Sorry for the short chapter. I was busy. Since I'm the writer, I guess you guys/gals will just need to accept that. :p Yea I'm evil. But not really because I'm super sorry. :(

Hmmm... no I'm not changing from Eragon and Arya to Faolin and Arya. I suppose I just like writing love scenes involving my favorite character!

Llama made this chapter 110% better! Please thank her in your reviews.

Faolin and Arya

The Elven race was arguably the greatest of all the people who lived in Alagaesia, second only to that of the dragons. They had been gifted with the ability to use magic, their good looks, but most of all the spirit of happiness which resided inside every elf. Now, the forests of Du Weldenvarden were diminishing, the population of the Elven race, shrinking until entire cities were abandoned. During the height of the riders, the young apprentices came to Esmirelda to train. Now the forests no longer echoed with the bugles of happ dragons and the roars of their ancient race, the only sounds which could be heard were the slight chirping of birds and the clash of swords as the peaceful race trained to fight the Black King. The Elves living in the rest of Alagaesia had surrendered, returning to their endless forests of green to bask in the glory of their race. Although it was just over 20 years ago their beloved King fell to the black sword of Galbatorix, the Elven race still mourned for him as if it were fresh. After the death of the King, the forests filled with weeping Elves. Their capital, Illeria, had been the only stronghold not to be vacated by the Elves during their return. Illeria was a city renowned for its beauty before the great war between Galbatorix and the Elven defenders, eventually resulting in an Elven defeat. Although the Elves fought gallantly, some were forced to yield to the sheer mental will of Galbatorix. The once peaceful and noble creatures were forced into slavery, their bloodlines carrying down in most noble families. Elven women could be seen in chains on the very streets they perused only years earlier, being sold into prostitution rings, their beauty unmatched by any of the humans. The Elven men had the arduous task of physical labor, becoming manservants for the nobles. Even more astounding was the transformation of the golden Elven capital into a black city signifying death for all who stood against Galbatorix.

But Arya didn't need to worry about that now, she was busy growing up, frolicing in the meadows of the beautiful Elven wood she was destined to rule.

"Faolin!", rang her sing-song voice, rustling the still leaves of the forest. A smile graced her lips as her playmate emerged in front of her, his scent wafting through the air to meet her nose. She took a deep breath of his distinct cedar and oak scent, savoring it as she closed her eyes, trying to remember her favorite smell in the world.

"Arya", Faolin breathed, still panting from their morning run together. "You never can keep up can you," the older boy teased the princess, tapping her on the nose before preparing to speed off yet again.

"Wait!" Arya yelled after him as he sprinted away from her.

Arya leaned against a tree as she caught her breath, Faolin walking back to meet up with her at the gnarled roots of the perfectly sculpted tree.

"Is something wrong Arya?" Faolin asked, genuinely confused as to why she wanted to stop in the middle of the forest when they were supposed to be back on the hour. "You know your mother will be frantic when she finds we have not returned on schedule," he warned.

"My mother..." Ayra caught herself. Her mother was Queen Islandi of the Elves, someone to be respected, not to be taken lightly. Arya had many choice words for her mother which she had collected over the years from Dwarves, Elves, and the rare human, but she prefered not to use them while another Elf was in her company.

Queen Islandi was never spoken about badly, and she was adored by all the Elves, almost as much as Arya's father, King Evendar. Being a great leader also meant Islandi wasn't the best mother by any stretch of the imagination, practically abandoning Arya ever since she was fit to go back to ruling over the Elven nation. Arya had been left in the hands of dragon rider Oromis, the last dragon rider to survive the Fall, when all the others were slaughtered by Galbatorix and his 13 forsworn. She was odd for an Elven child, being taught swordsmanship by her father, using a rusty dagger. Although her mother wished Arya would become a peaceful Elven child, Arya vowed to help bring about Galbatorix's death. Skipping her classes on knitting and cooking lessons to spend more time on the practice field challenging any Elf who dared fight their princess, lest they mark her accidentally. After Evendar died, Oromis taught her how to handle a sword, allowing her to become a swordsman rivaling even Evendar himself. She was also taught spells and magic, singing, history, literature, logic and intuition. Under Oromis' tutelage, she also learned to be resourceful and how to lead a nation.

"My mother will be fine. I just wanted to spend a little time alone with you." Arya said, inwardly groaning at .

Faolin shifted uncomfortably on his feet, "What's wrong Arya?".

"Well, I have this feeling sometimes, but I don't know what it is. It threatens to overcome me and go against my better judgement. I resist, but all I want to do is give into the feeling and do what it desires." Arya paused, trying to collect her thoughts. "I... well..."

Faolin moved closer to Arya, embracing her lithe form, hoping to squeeze out whatever was bothering her with a hug. Suddenly, Faolin found Arya's face unbearably close to his. He studied her expression, starting first with her raven black hair, tucked into a tight bun, moving down to her piercing green eyes, her perfectly sculpted nose, her pointed, angular features, her cherry lips, and her small chin. Realizing what he was doing, Arya let the corners of her lips twitch upwards as she stepped back for a moment. She studied him with the same intensity. Faolin was muscular for an elf, his sing-song voice seemed to light up the air. His hair was an almost black color with gleaming green eyes, and perfectly angled features. He also lightened up as he noticed her studying him, suddenly aware he was standing less than a foot away from possibly the most beautiful elf he had ever seen. She was even prettier than his first love. The tips of his ears lit up red as they stood there for a bit, studying one another, until Arya moved forward, closing the already miniature gap between their bodies. Faolin went to give her another hug, but instead of embracing and pulling him close with her arms, Arya's face drew nearer to his. Time seemed to slow as Faolin panicked; he could feel her warm breath on his face, sending shivers down his spine and warmth erupting from his heart. _So this is what she meant, _he thought to himself, _she feels like she is in love with me! Imagine that, the most beautiful creature you have ever laid eyes on falling right into your lap! _Faolin inched his face closer to hers, turning slightly as he braced for the impact of their lips. His heart raced as he realized what he was about to do. _She is the Elven princess you fool! _he hissed. _You can't fall in love with a princess, you are but a commoner!_

Standing there by the tree, Arya and Faolin stood, their faces hovering mere centimeters apart, their lips about to connect, sealing their love for each other. Faolin felt his lips brush against Arya's unbelievably soft pair. He had never felt so good in his life! Ripping himself away, Faolin threw himself backward, sending Arya sprawling in the dust as she leaned forward to kiss him.

"I'm sorry Arya, I can't." His heart pounded, threatening to beat out of his chest, not because he had just sent the Elven princess to the floor or because he had almost kissed the most beautiful girl he had ever met. He quickly helped the princess back to her feet, tears streaming down her face.

"No, I am sorry Faolin." she said, her voice barely a whisper, quieted by anticipation of what almost happened. "It was too soon, I should have asked, I'm not ready... you don't love me." Ayra listed her reasons, pausing to think about the last one before it escaped her lips which were desperately trying to seal themselves from shame before they did something else she would regret.

"Arya," Faolin said, his voice full of sorrow. "You are the most beautiful Elf I have ever met, both on the inside and out." There was a long pause as Faolin desperately tried to find a valid reason why he couldn't love her besides the obvious. "I'm not ready for this kind of relationship. You are too young and beautiful Arya. You don't need heavy things like relationships hanging over your head. I'm sorry Arya," Faolin murmured before running back through the forest, leaving the trees rustling in his wake along with a crying Arya.

Arya weeped for hours, having nature to comfort her. _What have you done you stupid Elf? _Arya screamed at herself. _I lost my only friend, my best friend, the only person I could always turn to when I had trouble with anything. I was greedy and I pushed our relationship to far. He doesn't love me because I'm not good enough._

With that final thought, Arya ran back to her home, her tears streaming out from behind her as the wind whipped at her face, pushing her tears aside. Her face and ears were red as her gorgeous black hair billowed, the bun coming apart as she dashed through the forest of green, disturbing her fellow kin as she tried to flee from her greatest nightmare.

She ran toward her home without another thought, haunted by the image of Faolin's shocked face as she tried to push herself on him. She replayed the memory of being turned down. For the first time in her life, Arya was unsure what to do. She could always go to her mother and get turned away in a couple of minutes. She could go to Oromis, and he would reprimand her for losing herself. The only person she would ever talk about this kind of thing too was the person she had offended, Faolin.

Arya slowed as she reached her home, Tildari Hall. There were ornate patterns woven in the ivy which trailed up the sides of the tree house of the nobles. Of course Arya shared her house with her mother, all that was left of the Royal Family ever since Evendar died, but Arya still had her own set of rooms so as to keep some semblance of privacy. Although calling the rooms she occupied, her chambers, it never stopped her mother from intruding on her privacy. Queen Islandí was a strange figure. She was a decorated Queen of the forest, and she was revered by all the Elves. Perhaps the Elves saw her husband in her and decided they would act the same way toward both, but none the less they never ceased to praise their Queen. Arya, on the other hand, saw a completely different view of the Elven monarch. She was quick and decisive, something good for battle, but not quite as effective when you are disagreeing with your daughter. Arya always got the cold shoulder from her mother, since the day she was born. Ruling a Kingdom of Elves was hard enough as it is, but having a daughter and raising her by yourself was completely different. Arya always looked at Islandí with distaste; the only time the Queen ever thought the talk to her daughter was either regarding her daughter taking the throne, or her daughter skipping her classes to visit Oromis and learn more about the art of war. Islandí most likely spoke to people of the nobility more often than she spoke to her own daughter, a little girl who grew up having no mother.

Of course Arya had gotten used to the actions of her mother, gradually developing a tolerance over the many years she lived in Du Weldenvarden. Her mother would not be disturbed if she was doing something important. Her mother didn't get visitors to her chambers, she only invaded others'. Her mother didn't have time for things such as love, and she prefered to not feel, as it helped her to become more productive in her duties as a ruler. Most importantly her mother had two rules; Arya was never to go outside the forest for any reason, and Arya was not to be instructed on how to wield weapons.

Naturally Arya was inclined to escape from her current predicament. She wasn't keen on the idea of ruling the Elves, and she quickly became one of the best Elven swordsmen ever to step foot in Alagaesia. Her mother being perhaps the most powerful person in Alagaesia besides Galbatorix himself, Arya was tempted to disobey her, something which shocked her Elven compatriots. Even Faolin himself didn't have the stupidity to go against Islandí's wishes.

As expected, when Arya entered Tildari Hall, her mother was still working with the Elven council, perhaps debating about another trivial issue such as the lack of yellow colored flowers in the gardens outside. Arya walked over to her bed and deposited her boots at the doorway, disgusted at her mother's idle chatter. _Every day, people are dying, and we hide in our forests, waiting for the humans to settle down once more. We should be fighting._ Realizing she was only making her situation worse by adding more fuel to the fire of anger pooling in her soul, Arya slumped down on her bed. The mattress was soft and fairly spacious, but it provided little comfort as the Elven Princess cried her heart out, empting an unending fountain of tears into the downy folds. _I shouldn't have done it, _she thought to herself. _We were happy... we were best friends. Why did I need to go and ruin the only meaningful relationship I have! _Arya's sobs quickened as she curled herself into a ball, trying to bury herself under her sheets, sealing herself away from the cruel world which lay in wait. She had confessed her love for her only friend, her sole companion in her life, only to find he did not feel the same way for her. He had turned his back, unable to look upon her without remembering what she did. Her actions broke their strong bond of friendship with one fell swoop, leaving the Elven Princess with nothing to console her but the warm tears trickling down her face. Arya cried the night away until darkness gave way to light. It was the shadowy figure on her balcony who finally whispered the spell for her; his words sending her into the elven trance before receding into the light of day.

Sorry about the extremely long wait time...especially for the short chapter got into a little trouble :P.

I have been helping a friend on a fan fic and will definitely post name when it gets up on FF!


	9. To Become a Hero

So yea... I'm back writing... you can thank llama for that!

Thanks to reviewers! They make me feel good.

I'm really sorry for the short chapter and the long wait. School and life always comes first for me.

I hate Murtagh. Yes he will take Eragon's place with Brom and his childhood will be almost the same as in Eragon, except it will say Murtagh in place of Eragon and his ickle baby dragon will be red and a guy.

I will use h3ll (obvious what it actually is. If you can't find out just message me.) Llama cannot see the doc with the actual word for some weird reason, so deal with it peeps.

THIS IS A RAW VERSION... IT HASN'T BEEN EDITED AT ALL... CATCH SOMETHING? MESSAGE ME OR PUT IT IN YOUR REVIEW! THANKS! #guiltpost

The night's affairs left Eragon restless in his plush bed, tossing and turning, praying for sleep to take him. Far below, he could hear the wheels of the carts churning as the ground beneath them hurtled by. The distinct snap of whips could be heard as slaves were carted into the city to be sold for auction under cover of night. The yelling of guards as they struck out left and right seemed so wrong to Eragon, who cringed at every blow and felt sick at the squelch of mud under the wheels of the carriages as more slaves were hauled in. Urû'baen was a glorious city no doubt, but it wasn't remotely close to being a utopia. Eragon could feel the darkness permeating from Galbatorix's throne room. The cold of the night was impossible to keep out, even under the layers of blankets, and the feeling of despair hung upon the young boy's shoulders as he attempted to salvage what was left of the time before the waking hours.

Eragon had been brought to the Black City without any choice, and he was now forced to stay whether he liked it or not. He had to admit the Emperor seemed to have good intentions, but Eragon couldn't help but feel as if he was a prisoner, subject to the other man's whims. It all didn't add up for Eragon; he was calmed only by the soothing presence of his dragon's watchful eyes as they roved around the room looking for any threat to its Rider.

The dragon's scales were a color reminding Eragon of the lake he had passed over on his journey, its eyes matched its Rider's perfectly, illuminating the dark room with their bold presence. Occasionally the creature would shuffle back and forth on its hind legs, unfurl its wings, open its maw, and resume sitting in the same position it loved so much.

Eragon was awoken by the bugling of his dragon as it welcomed the sun's rays into the bedroom. Eragon quickly conveyed the message to be silent to the dragon by means of thought, but the dragon paid him no heed. The dragon turned to face him with a hurt look on its face and resumed its disruptive activity. _It can't talk, can it, _Eragon realized, shaking his head at his own stupidity. _Even the proud dragons aren't born with all their knowledge_, he thought with a chuckle. He flashed a picture of the dragon making a ruckus and quickly to a picture of angry townspeople. The dragon quickly quieted and meekly slunk over to rest in a corner of Eragon's room while he got dressed.

Eragon never realized his wardrobe was restocked everyday, and was surprised to see a black tunic waiting for him on the first hanger. _Strange. It is such a nice day out and I am dressed as if I am going to a funeral! _Eragon taught the dragon the word funeral by flashing the image of people mourning. Of course it couldn't speak yet, but at least it would understand, he thought.

Eragon threw the tunic on without a moment more of hesitation. He grabbed a belt from the drawer and the pair of pants from the hook, quickly dressing himself in the gloomy attire. _Obviously someone had a bad day, _Eragon laughed mentally. Eragon found the clothes were tailored perfectly to himself as if he had been measured by one of the King's dressers.

_I wonder why the King takes such a great interest in someone as lowly as myself. I am obviously not royal blood; perhaps he is looking for a new swordsman or trustworthy compatriot. _

Once again Eragon chuckled at his own joke. He could no more picture the hooded man needing companionship than he could see his dragon breathing fire. Currently it looked like a blue puffball with wings and a head!

Eragon allowed the dragon to perch on his shoulder as he finally started to make his way to the door. The dragon, however, refused his kind offer, and decided to hop around Eragon's room.

Making a mental note to get some meat for the dragon at the kitchen, Eragon stepped foot outside his bedroom, tripping over the lip which stood between the door to his room and the floor, sending him sprawling in the dust.

_Strange, I don't remember there being a lip there yesterday... _

Eragon clambered to his feet, his hand clutching on to that of an assisting noble. Eragon looked up at the kind gentleman's face to thank him but found himself staring at a hideous masked figure dressed entirely in black. Releasing the man's hand from his grip, Eragon turned to flee as he felt a cold hand wrap its fingers around his throat. Thrashing violently, Eragon struggled to get free of the second man's iron grip, while the masked figure drew a knife from a sheath hidden in the folds of his cloak. The man swung the little knife toward Eragon's head as he struggled to hold on to the last threads of consciousness. Eragon's thoughts immediately went to the King, but he couldn't focus with the dagger nearing his scalp. Eragon saw the past events flash by as the knife blade arced toward his face. He watched in horror as the sharp tip dived toward his skin, only to turn slightly as the flat of the blade bounced off his temple with a flick of the man's wrist. With the stinging blow, Eragon's world descended into darkness, his only thoughts were of the man who almost killed him, and the hungry baby dragon sitting alone in his room.

Eragon groggily awoke to the horrid smell of singed skin and burned hair. Blood spattered the walls of his cell, and fellow prisoners could be heard crying out in agony. He had been tied face down on the table, donning only his pants. As he looked around, he could see the red blood on the ground dancing like a stream in the rain. It was then he realized, there were no other prisoners screaming, he was listening to his own cries as the merciless barbed whip of his torturer was brought down again and again against his flailing form. After hours of trying to loosen the hold of the ropes binding his wrists and feet, Eragon decided the resistance was futile. Holding his gut in and biting down on his lip, Eragon stayed motionless and silent. Only the harsh sounds of the whip and blood spattering against the floor kept Eragon from slipping into unconsciousness.

Eragon realized his sense of touch had been heightened when the burly man, clad in black, walked past with a dangerous looking barbed whip. Untying Eragon's wrists made Eragon feel as if the man was taking a razor and skinning his arms. After untying Eragon from the table, the man lifted Eragon up and tossed him a shirt, taking a moment to offer a devilish smile. Putting on the scratchy shirt felt like dragging a bed of nails over his whole body, making tears form in the young rider's eyes.

"Welcome to the Varden, Eragon"

Eragon finished pulling his head out of the top of the shirt, but the man was already gone and the door had been pulled shut and firmly bolted in place. He analyzed his quickly deteriorating situation. _I'm probably going to be kept here for my whole life. Who is going to bother looking for me in a dungeon, and who are these animals called the Varden? _Suddenly he remembered, _Maybe the King will come for me_, he thought hopefully. _After all, he needs me as a dragon rider, and I suppose he will look for me with his enemies. _

Eragon studied his surroundings, trying to keep optimistic he would be rescued someday, whether by Galbatorix or by death he didn't know which would come first. He had a hole in the ground which smelled of sewer water; presumably the waste of a whole city flowed in the water underneath his cell. The only other item adorning his cramped living quarters was a table which presumably doubled as a torture table and his bed. Disgusted to be sleeping on the ripped pieces of his own flesh, Eragon endured another bout of pain as he carefully lifted the shirt off his body to wipe down the table. Flipping the garment inside out, Eragon rolled it up and used it as a pillow for his head, lying helplessly until the man in black came back to deliver more pain.

Three times a day, Eragon was visited by the black robed man to endure tortures of increasing cruelty. He was delivered meals on an irregular schedule, the boy who delivered his cold porridge and raw meat seemed to get more horrified every time he looked upon the distressed young rider. Although he didn't have a mirror to view himself, the landscaping on the front of his body was quite enough to convince him he had gone to h3ll* and back more than once. His chest was completely black and blue, shreds of dead skin clung on, struggling to cover the open wounds made fresh every day. Black barbs stuck into his body like porcupine quills. At first he had tried to pull the whip barbs out of his skin so it could heal, but he later decided it was futile, the whipping was just the warm up to the other horrors he would experience later.

The Vaden's torturer had lately taken to putting hot branding irons on his feet. Even if Eragon became free, he doubted he could ever walk back to Galbatorix's place. The pain was mind numbing, hopelessness dominated Eragon's mind. The young rider didn't know how long he had been inside the torture chamber, but the routine kept him from becoming crazy from the pain. Three times per day he was tortured, and once a day he was fed, kept nourished only enough to sustain his life, but no more. There were no windows to his cell, and his eyes had become accustomed to seeing in the dark as if it were the light of day. He still wished for the King to find and rescue him in the clutches of his enemies, but he doubted the King would. The young rider couldn't even summon the strength to think of the man's name! He was certainly hopeless, lying in pools of his own blood without being able to move, not because of chains, but because of the nerve enhancers. Every twitch of movement sent blood rushing to his torn muscles; the pain was unbearable. The boy never spent a night without screaming at least a hundred times from slight movements keeping him awake. Eragon lay on his makeshift bed motionless, waiting for the time to pass until he would be tried again. The thing which was most puzzling was the lack of contact between his torturer and himself. The robed man never asked for anything, he just continued to hurt Eragon day and night. Even when Eragon tried to spill what he thought were his deepest secrets, the man shrugged and continued with his gruesome work.

Eragon knew today would be his last day with his sanity. He had been stripped of all his clothes and moved to a cell with a furnace, placed on a brutal looking restraining rack which held his arms and legs, but allowed his torso move. He could be rotated to face any direction, but he was left watching ceiling as the audible hiss of melting metal and a plume of steam came from the direction of the forge. He felt as his waist and legs were measured, probably by experts given the speed of their measurements. Nimble fingers racing over his bruised skin were enough to send spasms of pain shooting through his body as he writhed under their gentle touch. He could feel the trickles of sweat starting to run down his brow as he involuntarily tried to get away from the cruel clammy hands.

Minutes felt like hours to the young rider until all the pricking of fingers racing over his exposed flesh halted. He could hear the shouting of multiple people as a hammer and anvil were transported next to the furnace. Hot metal was cooled and molded, hammered into a shape resembling a breastplate. _Why would they be making a set of armor here? Maybe the heat and sound are supposed to drive me crazy. _He laughed at the obscure thought. _Heh! Torture with sound. What a relief! _

The men around him started shifting, speaking in a language he didn't understand. It sounded very graceful and majestic. Eragon was surprised he couldn't remember any of the words; the sentences were going in one ear and out the next. The bulk of metal they obviously just created was stone cold as it was hefted over his chest.

A few more muttered words and other gauntlets and assorted pieces of armor were pressed against him until he was completely encased in a shiny black enamel. The pieces were taken off and remade to fit his form more closely; the process of reheating and cooling until the armor was perfect took hours. Eragon was surprised when his usual tormenter strode in and reheated his perfectly crafted armor. Issuing what was apparently an order for all the smiths to leave, the man in the robe continued to heat the armor until it glowed white hot. Using tongs he skillfully maneuvered the breast plate around to Eragons bare chest, relishing the young rider's horrified expression as he cringed at the heat. Slowly lowering the heavy metal plate down to Eragon's chest, the young rider wiggled his body in a futile attempt to escape the obvious. In seconds, the now red plate was singing the uppermost layers of skin on his bare chest before being laid down with a thump, issuing a terrified scream from the young Eragon. At first, Eragon writhed in pain as the plate burnt through his skin, screaming in agony, but he finally came to accept the pain. His attempts to escape from under the plate stopped, but his screaming never ceased no matter how much he willed it too.

After the breastplate, Eragon knew what to expect as the rest of his armor was heated. The arm plates were viciously slapped on with the grieves and metal boots. The gloves came next, but thankfully there was no helmet to burn his face. The screams and spasms of pain became fewer and finally stopped until his armor was no longer growing. Eragon was forced into a standing position during the night, the armor digging into his burnt flesh, sending new waves of pain shooting through his limbs. Eragon didn't get any sleep that night, sitting in a mixture of his own gore and blood with his cries of pain echoing through the dungeon. Eragon wouldn't have thought it possible to be given this much pain and still be alive and conscious, but for some reason he stayed conscious throughout the days happenings.

Eragon was relieved when his torturer finally came to take his armor off. The armor had been blocky at first, but eventually had become molded to his form. He could see the outline of his abdominal muscles etched perfectly in the metal. He would have thought it was awesome if he hadn't had to experience the agony someone had to go through to get the perfect fit.

The hooded man viciously ripped his armor off from his body, taking most of his burnt skin with it; Eragon didn't look down, but he could see from looking at the inside of his armor that he most likely had no skin left. Blood was freely running down his skinned form, his face was the only thing left unharmed by the heat.

Throughout the next week, Eragon lost his mind. He became so sickly he could only drink potions providing him with nourishment. No longer did he need the nerve enhancing drug, he had no nerves left besides those in his face. Sometime along the road a helmet was also incorporated. The smell of burning hair permeated the dungeon, mixing with its already repulsing odor to create something truly disgusting. Eragon's ears and eyes were severely damaged by the heat. He couldn't see more than colors and shapes or hear any more than a faint cries when he screamed. His mouth was practically sealed open, his lips forced to part during his episodes with the burning helmet so he didn't die of air loss. His nose was not spared however, suffering a similar fate to his ears and eyes, the passages sealed by burnt skin. He thought all hope was lost until he was awoken by screaming which wasn't his. Using all of his strength, Eragon lifted his head up just in time to see the guard of his cell fall to blasts of pure black energy. His captor turned around and produced a cruelly edged black blade as he clashed with his rescuer. He was quickly dispatched with a quick flurry of movement. Eragon couldn't make out the face, but the black energy made him certain it was the King who had rescued him.

"My lord?" Eragon managed to croak out from between his damaged lips.

As he heard his name, Eragon's lips twisted into a pained smile; he had been rescued! He was free now! He could be with his dragon!

Galbatorix

The boy's happiness almost brought tears to his eyes until he remembered he had ordered his torture. He wasn't surprised to see Eragon in such a poor state, given his torturer was one of the King's finest. The King already prepared the proper potions and spells to heal the young rider and ease his pain. He would be disfigured for the rest of his life, but his senses could be returned. Galbatorix opted to sharpen his vision and hearing, but didn't allow the rider to feel pain. Although he had the power to return everything but Eragon's image back to the original, he wanted to forge Eragon into a powerful weapon to plunge straight into the heart of the Varden.

After partially healing the young rider, Galbatorix took the armor on the table and carried the rider to his dragon for the short flight to the main body of Urû'baen. Eragon would hide behind the intricate mask and armor his whole life. Nobody except for himself and the King would ever know what transpired. Eragon wouldn't need to swear any oaths, he would provide unwavering loyalty because he would wake up thinking he owed the King his life.

_The Varden's end is nearing. I only need to train the boy, he has already been aligned with our cause Shruikan. Now you see my brilliance._

_Always, _came the deep rumbling voice of the dragon, _you always win._


	10. The Balance of Power

So the updates may be irregular with projects and finals... the usual.

This chapter is Murtagh and Brom because i insulted my best reviewer (ya restrained srry :{ ) by saying I hate Murtagh... maybe i can make up for it?

Llama requested it! Idk how ppl like him...

I'm quickly losing the will to write any more on this ff... it could have been epic but sadly I think I will be putting it on hiatus sometime soon. Eragon is depressing me and I'm no longer interested. If anybody is interested/willing to take up my story please pm email me at thisisonlyafakeemail  (yea its fake lol) and I will get back to you if I feel you are a good fit for the story. Keep in mind this is a possibility... the other is that I keep plugging at it and maybe I'll revitalize my interest in Eragon ff. Sorry all readers and thank you to all who have read/supported me as well as this ff.

LOL I WROTE THAT A VERY LONG TIME AGO... in a galaxy far far away. hehe. yup I came that close to quitting so if u like the story I ask you to review! It means a lot! It makes me not quit! :D

So yea I'm back... I can't write much during the summer and updates will be extremely slow for the school year. I have 7 academic classes including writing for my school's newspaper. I also play a lot of sports so my schedule is pretty packed and I'm up to 2 am every day even if I don't write.

* * *

><p>Murtagh<p>

Murtagh bent low in the tall grass, the wind blowing into his face as he stalked the young doe. He edged closer to the doe which remained completely still, almost petrified. In one smooth motion, the bow was drawn, the arrowhead tracking the doe's head. Swift as the wind, the string twanged and the arrow soared straight to the target, impacting the poor animal's knee with a satisfying thump, followed by the thud of the form of the doe, still struggling to get away from Murtagh. He moved quickly, eager to return home to win Garrow's approval, and swiftly severed its head from its body, carrying back the limp carcass to his uncle's farm. They would eat well that night. They could cook part of it and dry the rest for the upcoming winter which was fast approaching.

On his way back to the farm, he met Brom, the old storyteller who had lived in Carvahall for numerous years. Brom grimaced at the sight of a dead doe slung over the young boy's shoulders. Murtagh could never understand why Brom was so passionate about saving the animals and the rest of nature by only eating fruits and vegetables. Murtagh scoffed at Brom's diet. The man was a fool, everyone knew it. He usually kept to himself, doing god-knows what; then again, nobody cared to know. Nobody even knew what he did for work. He claimed he was a storyteller, yet he never talked in public. _Curious_, Murtagh thought to himself. He would need to look into that later when winter came around and he had nothing better to do than talk to the people in the rest of the town.

Murtagh continued on his way; not saying a word to the strange man as he passed. One of those awkward moments when the person passing you made eye contact but you took care to avoid it. Brom knew it. He was looked down upon by the whole town, but yet he still stayed like it was nobody's business how he got his gold.

Murtagh whirled around once Brom had passed to get a better look at the man. His black cloak billowed out behind him as a gust of wind chilled Murtagh to the bone. The leaves swirled at Brom's feet in a little cyclone. Brom raised his hand to ward off the flying brush, calming the wind at once. _Maybe there is more to this man than meets the eye. _Murtagh thought as he looked inquisitively toward Brom. Remembering he was still carrying a bleeding animal which was fairly heavy, the boy turned his gaze back toward the path before finding the energy within himself to brave the cold onward to his father's house.

Murtagh let out a shout for his brother as he came near, maneuvering his way around to the back of the house. Roran quickly opened the gate and hurried him in. Murtagh felt proud he was able to feed his family, as he stood there, waiting for Uncle Garrow to give him the praise he deserved.

Garrow wasn't a cold man, but he also wasn't a man to dish out complements unnecessarily. A short grunt served as praise for the boy, and Murtagh accepted it eagerly.

It would be only a few days before Murtagh would be sent off into the spine, alone, with only his imagination for companionship, only his bow to keep him safe. When he first started hunting in the Spine, it scared him; the stories of people getting lost, eaten, even abducted by evil magicians. Now the spine was his source of food, his friend. Going to the Spine was almost like a ritual for him after 4 years of hunting. He reused his old camps, and even hid arrows in specific trees in case he got into trouble.

But for now he was home, and Roran was preparing the steaks of meat for dinner. The aroma of cooking meat filled the house and made everyone's mouths salivate. It had been a long time since Murtagh had brought back such a feast for his adopted family, and he was proud to put food on the table in such grand style. There was no better feeling than going to sleep with a full stomach and a smile on his face.

* * *

><p>Murtagh scampered up the mountain path. The Spine and its inhabitants were usually shunned, so Murtagh avoided being seen as he prepared for his hunt. Ducking behind a rock to see if anyone was looking, Murtagh quickly pulled his finest bow from its underground lair, carefully uncorking the leather tube before sliding the bow straight out along with a dozen of his best arrows. He was careful not to rip the leather as he slid the sheathe back into its underground hiding place. If there was a puncture the moisture from the ground would ruin the integrity of the wood in the bow, something he couldn't afford.<p>

Stealthily he moved steadily along the upward slope. He would venture deep into the spine by nightfall, as it was still before the sun came up. It was at these times Murtagh wished he could use magic. A warm fire and instant dead deer would be unbelievably satisfying, but alas he was only a mere hunter. Magic was only for the extremely gifted. Besides, if he could use magic, he would probably be led immediately before Galbatorix and forced to serve him with every ounce of his strength. _I would never see my family again, _he thought.

The mere mention of being hauled away from Garrow and Roran and being set in front of the Black King sent shivers up Murtagh's spine. He might not be Garrow's real son, but he was still treated as if Roran and he were equals. He was eternally grateful for Garrow's hospitality and promised himself that one day he would repay his uncle and cousin for how they provided for him whenever he had need.

Murtagh continued on the same trail for what felt like days, finally reaching the opening in the canopy which signaled his first night's camp. He wiped the hot sweat from his brow. Even though it was cold outside with a slight breeze, the miles of walking were tiring and hard. Murtagh's feet ached, his leather boots not suitable for such long hikes in the woods. He arched his back and it cracked a few times before he was satisfied with its condition. Pulling a blanket from his sack, Murtagh made a fire and set up camp. He already had a pile of twigs gathered inside a hollow tree, but he felt like making the extra effort and using fresh materials.

After about an hour of gathering wood dry enough to burn, night had almost set. Murtagh sat as he made a fire and made his meal, resting his aching feet until yet another day of non-stop walking. He had some dried and salted beef as well as a few other spices. He used water from a container in his sack to make a stew. It was plain tasting, but the chunks of beef felt good as they slid down his throat. If nothing else, it kept him warm in the high altitudes of the Spine. The stew sat nicely in his stomach as he lay down to sleep. He fed the fire with enough kindling to last for a decent amount of time, earning him some sleep before he needed to wake up to tend to it. The fire would keep the larger animals away from his camp. His brain worked like clockwork; even when Murtagh was at home, he woke up twice a night to see if he was still safe. Sometimes he missed the comforts of home, but when he was sitting at home doing nothing in the winter, he felt absolutely useless. He figured he would always be unhappy with the living arrangement, not like he had any choice about whether or not he wanted to hunt. He was too skinny to do farm work like Roran, but he still needed to work to put food on the table for his family. Even though he wouldn't admit it, the Spine was more of a home than Garrow's house. He spent most of his time wandering outside or hunting game; _Its not like there is much else to do there, _he thought. Murtagh pondered on the subject of where he wanted to go someday when he moved out, but the subject made his head hurt after too long. He would miss Roran when he moved, and even though Garrow gave Murtagh little to smile about, there was something about the old man which made Murtagh feel like he was at home. No, it definitely wouldn't be the same, but it would be exciting to finally leave and start his own life, whatever that may be.

* * *

><p>Murtagh awoke for the third time that morning as the sun started to crest over the trees. He was a little late to get to his next camping spot, but he always allowed himself plenty of time to jump from place to place. He was moving farther up into the mountains, the spine of Alagaesia. He quickly scraped up some remnants of last night stew before hastily boiling it and wolfing it down, grinning. It would be another long day of walking in solitude.<p>

After packing up his belongings and collecting his bow with all its arrows, he grudgingly made his way onto another path. He could see distinctly the path before him, even though to the untrained eye it would have looked like nobody had been there for years. The scuffing on the ground clued him in so he knew which direction was home and where he needed to go to his next place. It was midday before he stopped to rest and eat. He sat down on one of the musty logs, the moss crunching below him, aggravated by his weight. He drew some water from the container, and prepared some fruit he had found along the way. The fruit was unlike any he had seen before. It was large and black, juice oozing out as he picked one up to take a closer look at it. It didn't seem to be poisonous, but he couldn't be sure just looking at it. Garrow had once given him a book about herbology, a gift he used often in the Spine as he hunted. _Yet another gift I must repay Garrow for, _Murtagh thought, flipping through page after page of brightly illustrated drawings. The pages of the book were crinkled and and worn bear from use. After a moment's search, Murtagh deemed the fruity specimens to be non-lethal. Cautiously, Murtagh swallowed the berries one by one until he was confident in his diagnosis. The fruits were extremely sweet, despite their large size. Murtagh let out a laugh as he picked another handful of the berries; They were the best thing he had ever tasted! _I need to show these to Garrow! Imagine a jam out of this berry, he could get rich selling it all across Alagaesia._

Murtagh took the sack off his back, filling it to the brim with the delicious fruit. He felt the vibrant energy of sugar coursing through his veins as he ran back to Garrow's house.

Murtagh dropped like a rock to the forest floor, his legs suddenly collapsing under him mid-stride. His mind was awake but unable to communicate with his flailing limbs. _What is happening?_ He couldn't even clutch his constricting throat as his air supply was cut. His chest tightened painfully as he struggled to breathe, struggled in vain. Panic was natural yet totally unhelpful; but Murtagh began to panic in the only way he could. His thoughts were screaming inside his head in the unbearable silence that engulfed him. What would happen to his family? They wouldn't come looking for him; but they were so close... _I'm sorry, Uncle...and Roran...I made a stupid mistake...forgive me._ A single, burning tear rolled down his cheek. The last thing Murtagh saw before his mind went black was a large grey berry oozing a vicious looking yellow syrup rolling out of his pack. He was in the middle of the Spine, unable to move or call for help. Even if he could cry out, nobody would ever hear him or venture into the haunted Spine to search for his body. His luck with the Spine had run out.

* * *

><p>Terribly short chapter... i couldn't deal with it<p> 


End file.
